


Fallout From The Magic Trick

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate TEH, Alternating POV – Sherlock/John, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Cannon Divergent, Caretaking, Caring John, Copious use of expensive lube, Dirty Talk, Epistolary story telling, Established relationship pre-Reichenbach, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Homecoming, Intercrural Sex, John has a concussion, John's filthy mouth, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Neck Kissing, Oral Sex, Post-Concussion Syndrome, Post-Reichenbach, Rough Sex, Slow Build, Slow build but sexy times show up in later chapters, Top John Watson, detailed description of torture wounds, john has amnesia, mary is a villian, men kissing, s3 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-07-13 01:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 27,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7132496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John hit his head on the pavement, he got a mild concussion that went undiagnosed and affected his memory. He remembers the beginning and end of the roof topcall but not the middle, when Sherlock told him all the details and gave him a secure website he’d be posting messages to for John while he was away.</p><p>Sherlock sent John messages every few days the entire two years, including the date he would return. He decided to surprise John at the restaurant as a joke, since John would expecting him back. But since John didn’t remember the middle of the call, he never got any of Sherlock’s messages.</p><p>Mycroft knew about the secure file website but just assumed John had tired of waiting for Sherlock to return and ‘moved on.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conversation on the rooftop

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Adrienne Devore for the transcripts.
> 
> Read more about post-concussion syndrome: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Post-concussion_syndrome

Sherlock, are you okay?

**Turn around and walk back the way you came.**

No, I'm coming in. 

**Just. Do as I ask. Please.**

Where?

**Stop there.**

Sherlock.

**Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop.**

Oh god.

**I— I— I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this.**

What's going on?

**An apology. We have to pretend it's all true.**

What?

**Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty. You have to pretend it’s true.**

Why are you saying this?

**Pretend I'm a fake.**

Sherlock—

**Pretend the newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes. They all have to believe that’s what you think. It’s the only way you can be safe.**

Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met—the first time we met—you knew all about my sister, right?

**Everyone has to think that nobody could be that clever.**

You could.

**They all have to think I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. It’s just a magic trick.**

No. Alright, stop it now.

**No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move.**

Alright.

**Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me? It’s the only way the plan will work.**

Do what?

**This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.**

Leave a note when?

**When they’re faking suicide! Or when they’re doing a real suicide. John, please do keep up.**

What?

**John, I need to fake my death in order to keep Moriarty from assassinating you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.**

What? What are you on about?

**Do try to keep up John! Moriarty has three assassins set on you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. If I don’t kill myself right now, they will strike.**

What? Sherlock!

**Don’t worry, John. Mycroft and I have a plan. I’m going to jump off the roof but we have a plan. The risk is minimal. I will be allright.**

What? A plan?

**Yes, I’m going to appear to jump and you need to come check my pulse then pronounce me dead. It will look to everyone, including Moriarity’s assassins, that I am killing myself. Please, I only have a moment.**

OK, Sherlock. You could have let me in on this plan, you know.

**Sorry John, it had to be convincing. I’m going to kill myself. You are going to pretend to be devastated that you lost your best friend. I’ll be gone a few months. I need to take out Moriarity’s network in Eastern Europe.**

OK, but I can help. I can come with you and help.

**No, John, this only works if Moriarity’s assassins believe I’m dead. If you disappeared, they’d know it’s fake.**

Allright. What can I do to help?

**Listen, John. I’ve set up a secure site. I wrote the address in the third from top row of yesterday’s crossword in the paper. I’ll send you messages when I can. The password is the first letter of each word in the fourth article on page three, alternating caps and lowercase. Capital T, lowercase A, and so on. You and I are the only ones who can access it. Mycroft let me use his secure server to set it up but I didn’t give him details. I don’t want him reading my messages. It’s one way so you won’t be able to reply. It’s safer for both of us that way.**

Wait. Yesterday’s paper? Mrs. Hudson may have thrown it out.

**Even if she has, it’s still in her bins. Pick-up isn’t until Friday.**

Ok, ok. So yyou have a plan and I’m going to pretend you’re dead for a few months. Right. Please, Sherlock, be careful.

**Right, John. Got it? Capital…**

Yes, Sherlock. Got it. Please take care of yourself.

**I can’t dawdle any longer. Off I go.**

**Goodbye, John.**

No. Don't —

Sherlock tossed his phone aside for Mycroft to retrieve later. He jumped, flailing through the air rather awkwardly. _Well, that’s embarrassing,_ he thought. _I’m sure John will get a laugh out of that._

What Sherlock didn’t see as he flailed was John, hit by an unobservant cyclist who knocked him to the ground head-first. John got up from the pavement quickly and, since all attention was on Sherlock’s ‘suicide,’ no one thought to insist that John have a CT scan to check for concussion. Thus, said concussion went undiagnosed. John never noticed his mild memory problems because – well, he couldn’t remember, so he didn’t know he had a problem. Others around him attributed his memory lapses to the horror and grief of watching his best friend and flatmate commit suicide right in front of his eyes.

John spent a very long time suffering. He had no idea that over 400 messages were waiting for him at a secure website that only he and his ‘dead’ flatmate knew about (and dead flatmate’s older brother, who had promised the dead flatmate he would not meddle). But really, only his dead flatmate knew about it, since the bump to John’s head had wiped the memory of two-thirds of their last conversation from his memory.

Sherlock, on the other hand, posted a new message to John every opportunity he had. He posted messages from around the globe, including a new message every time he found a new cell of Moriarity’s network to let John know he’d be away a little longer. 

It gave Sherlock comfort to think of John sitting in his chair at Baker Street, checking the secure site before bed a few times a week. The longer Sherlock was away, the more he missed John and the more his posts revealed his feelings. As months stretched to years and his longing for John - and home - grew stronger, Sherlock poured his heart out to John frequently, until just before he was captured by the Serbians, he was posting several messages a day, telling John how he loved him, how he longed for him.

Knowing John was reading his messages, imagining John’s smile, the flush of his cheeks, sustained Sherlock through sleep deprivation and torture at the Serbians’ hands. Sherlock sent his last message as he cleaned up from his Serbian dungeon stay, to tell John he’d be home in a few days.

That’s why Sherlock decided to surprise John upon his return. John would be expecting Sherlock to show up at Baker Street, so he thought he’d pull off a clever surprise instead. 

_Won’t John be delighted!_


	2. Things don’t quite go as planned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just realized how many italics I used in this chapter! Please forgive me!

Sherlock lay on the cold terrazzo floor with John’s hands clasped around his throat, stunned. John had reacted badly to his surprise. He’d acted like he was _surprised_ to see Sherlock. _Shocked,_ even. And John was dining with a woman and had a ring box in his pocket. 

_What in heaven’s name was happening_? Why was John preparing to present some strange woman a ring? He knew Sherlock’s return was imminent. What was he doing out with a woman at all – why wasn’t he at Baker Street waiting for Sherlock?

Even stranger was the way John behaved after they were thrown out of the restaurant. They settled a small diner and John continued to be angry and yell at Sherlock. And that woman – Mary, he’d gathered to be her name – tagged along as if she belonged with them. _Bloody hell, had the world gone mad in his absence_?

Sherlock finally figured it out at the deli they retired to after being thrown out of the diner. “Didn’t you get my messages?” he asked John.

John just shook his head, rolling his eyes and exclaiming angrily, “Messages! Where in _hell_ was I supposed to get messages? Bottles in the Thames?”

“John, the secure website. Didn’t you check it? Didn’t you get the web address from the paper? Didn’t you retrieve the newspaper from Mrs. Hudson’s bins? The password! Did you remember the capital letters?” Sherlock’s voice rose as he spat out a litany of questions, growing more agitated by the minute.

John’s eyes widened, his brows flying further up his forehead with each of Sherlock’s questions. “What are you raving about?” Each word bitten off with angry precision.

“No, John! I told you! The phone call! From the roof – remember? I told you about the secure site, how to access it and the password? John! I sent you 400 messages! Please tell me you read them!” Sherlock’s composure cracked. He clutched at John’s arms, trying to will him to understand.

“Sherlock, you are _fucking insane_! You called me from that rooftop to _tell me you were a fake_. Then you _jumped_. You fucking _killed yourself_ right in front of me. I watched you _die_! I _grieved_. For two years, I grieved for you.” John grew more furious with each word, until at last the rage got the best of him and he reared back and head-butted Sherlock in the nose, blindly wanting to inflict even a fraction of the pain on Sherlock had inflicted on him. John fled the deli, flagging a cab as he hit the sidewalk.

Mary rose to follow more slowly, giving Sherlock a warm look of sympathy. She grabbed a few paper napkins from the dispenser on the table and handed them to Sherlock. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk him around,” she said sweetly.


	3. What if he really doesn’t remember?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discusses his encounter at the restaurant with his brother. They both realize that John has not had the full picture the past two years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long delay in posting this chapter. I had computer issues and was without access for a few weeks. Thank you to readers who stuck with the story through the long hiatus!

 

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table in Baker Street holding an ice bag to his nose. The bleeding had stopped but he needed to control the swelling and prevent bruising. His laptop sat open on the table in front of him, the secure website on the screen. He’d logged in as the administrator for the first time since his jump. He scrolled through the messages with dates starting the day after his “suicide” up to two weeks ago. He sighed when he thought of all those messages, waiting for John, and John never knew about them. The status of every message showed UNREAD.

Sherlock still didn’t know that John had been struck by a random biker in front of St. Barts Hospital. He didn’t know that John had had a concussion, and he didn’t know that concussion had resulted in John forgetting most of the rooftop conversation.

What Sherlock did know was that John, his partner, his lover, his reason for living, his reason for jumping, was marrying someone else. A woman. A beautiful, seemingly kind woman named Mary. He also knew that John was furious with him, had assaulted him three times in an hour and then stormed off. 

What hurt most was that John didn’t act the least bit happy to find Sherlock alive. Instead, he seemed furious that Sherlock hadn’t died. 

And Mary, the woman who was still a total stranger to Sherlock, had offered to “talk him around.” _What a fucking mess - a cock up of Biblical proportions_.

Sherlock dialed Mycroft’s number. He rubbed his eyes with one hand as he waited for his brother to pick up. At last Mycroft’s bored tone drawled, “Hello?”

“Mycroft, why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me John didn’t get my messages!” Sherlock stormed at his brother.

“Sherlock, I didn’t have the password, remember? I didn’t know your flatmate wasn’t picking up the messages.” 

“You said you kept an eye on him! You must have known about the woman! Why didn’t you tell me that he was _sleeping around_ while I was out risking my life to make sure he was _safe_?” Sherlock hated the warble of emotion that crept into his voice and hated it doubly that his brother was the one to hear it.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. Based on Dr. Watson’s past behavior when you were living at Baker Street, I honestly just thought he was having a fling to pass the time until you returned. You remember the endless string of girlfriends?”

“But that was _before_. Before we were together. Mycroft, please tell me he wasn’t cheating after we were together!”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I can assure you that he was faithful before your extended absence.”

“Then why would you think he’d change while I was gone!” 

“Sherlock, I can tell you know that I was never impressed with your John. He did appear to be a gentling influence on you but as a man, I felt he lacked basic respect. He was rude at times, has a hair-trigger temper, and continued to fail to impress me with his behavior. Isn’t it true that he insisted you were not a couple, nearly shouting from the rooftops that he was not gay, until well after you were together?” Mycroft didn’t want to be unkind to his brother, but he did want to paint a realistic picture of John Watson in the hopes Sherlock would be objective.

“But he claims he didn’t know about the secure site! His reaction seemed honest. He truly does not remember our last conversation d. He says he grieved for the past two years.” Sherlock wanted to believe it was true, that John had not merely cast him aside when he was no longer in London.

“He did do a rather convincing job of grieving. He even moved out of Baker Street; he said it was too painful to live there without you,” Mycroft mused.

“But why would he forget my phone call!” 

Mycroft paused, thinking back to the events of two years prior. “There is something, Sherlock. When you jumped, as Doctor Watson ran towards St. Barts, he was struck by a cyclist. He took a hit and was knocked head-first to the road. He got up immediately and walked to you, but I do remember witnesses saying Dr. Watson seemed rather dazed. I thought he was putting on a good show to convince Moriarty's snipers that you’d jumped. But that may have been an error. What if he struck his head when he went down?”

Sherlock considered his brother’s words. “Did he have care at A&E? A CT scan to check for concussion?”

“No, in the rush and confusion of your jump, he failed to check in at A&E. Could he have had a concussion and not known it?”

“Oh, god, Mycroft,” Sherlock moaned, “He surely thought…he believed that I’d committed suicide. He thought I was dead.” Sherlock’s stomach roiled at what he would have thought and done if the roles were reversed and he believed John had killed himself. He feared he would be sick. “What do I do now?” 

“Sherlock, I’m not sure there is anything you can do. After this amount of time, I’m not sure there would be any physical evidence to show on a CT scan. John believes you tricked him. It’s unlikely he’ll take your word that you told him your plan.”

“But my phone! Surely you recorded the conversation!” Sherlock grasped at this slim hope. “Do you have the file? Can you give it to me?”

“Yes, Sherlock, I did record the conversation and can send you the file. I’ll also send over a transcript of the conversation. But why would John believe it’s genuine? Might he just believe I had the conversation faked?” Mycroft sounded weary.

“I’ve got to try. John _must_ believe me,” Sherlock murmured, sounding hopeless.


	4. After the bonfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John visits Sherlock alone after Sherlock saved him from being burned in the bonfire.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked. After the drama of the motorcycle ride, bonfire and subsequent rescue, it was a relief to see John sitting in his chair at Baker Street. It felt _normal_ – as if the dramas of the past two years had never happened.

“Yeah, not bad. Bit smoked.” John glanced up at Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t like what he saw in that glance: mistrust, blame, simmering anger, hurt.

“Right,” Sherlock said sadly. He hoped his glance conveyed the hurt, sorrow and guilt he felt.

John met Sherlock’s gaze, not backing down and apparently not relenting. “Last night, who did that? And why did they target me?” John’s tone sounded accusing to Sherlock.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied sadly.

“Is it someone trying to get to you through me? Is it something to do with this terrorist thing you talked about?” John’s tone of voice pierced Sherlock’s heart. It sounded as if John blamed Sherlock for being kidnapped – _of course he did_. John’s anger was apparent in the long glare that accompanied the question.

Sherlock looked away, sorrow and hurt transparent in his frown. “I don’t know. I can’t see the pattern. It’s too nebulous.” Sherlock folded his hands behind his back and dropped his chin. He didn’t want John to see the tears gathering in his eyes. This was not what he’d imagined their first private conversation would go. He closed his eyes tight against the images he’d held over the past two years, of he and John’s reunion at Baker Street. He turned his back to John and cleared his throat. “So, then. What we had … it’s over?” he asked without turning, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

John also cleared his throat. “Umm, yea, about that … I’ve moved on.” The steel in John’s voice pierced Sherlock’s heart. “I can trust Mary. More than I can say for you.”

Sherlock sniffed. He wanted to fall at John’s feet and beg for his forgiveness but was honestly afraid of another assault if he tried. “What are you doing here then?” His voice sounded wet and raw even to his own ears. “Can we at least talk about this?”

“I don’t see anything to talk about. I’m with Mary now. We’re getting married. I would like to still be friends, if that’s possible.” John sounded like being friends was the last thing he wanted. “I thought at least I’d come by and thank you for saving my life.”

Sherlock pushed the heels of his hands into his tightly closed eyes, hard. He took two even breaths then dropped them again as he turned toward John. “John, before you say any more, there is something I want to give you. Please, just read this information and listen to the file before you say any more.” 

He picked up a file folder from the table beside his chair; he’d prepared it when he couldn’t sleep the night before. In it was a flash drive with the recorded telephone conversation from Bart’s roof. Also included was a transcript of it. And he’d typed a page with all the information for the secure website that John didn’t remember: the URL, John’s username and password. He’d been tempted to print out all the messages it contained and include them in the file, but he couldn’t bear the thought of their contents. Best to let John decide when and how he’d read them – _if he read them at all_. Sherlock could always go back later and print them.

He held out the file folder toward John. John let Sherlock’s hang in the air between them for long seconds. At last he raised his hand to take the folder as he stood. “What’s this then?” he asked coldly.

“An explanation. And apology. Please, just read it.” Sherlock hated the pleading tone in his voice but he had reached the end of his self control. He was desperate for John to understand, to remember. “Just … it’s all in there. You’ll understand after you read it.”

John straightened into his Captain Watson pose. “Right, then. I’m off.” He glared at Sherlock for half a minute. Sherlock thought he caught a glimmer of something softer – regret, forgiveness? But it was gone before Sherlock could even identify it. 

Sherlock turned his back again. He didn’t want John to see the expression of grief he could control no longer.


	5. A safe place to ponder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a lot to consider. He needs a place to think.

Anger thrummed through John as he pounded down the steps of Baker Street. He’d intended to stop in for a visit with Mrs. Hudson but was too angry to be good company. He wrenched the front door open and slammed it behind. He winced at the loud noise – it wasn’t fair to Mrs. Hudson to slam about like that. He’d have to remember to apologize the next time he saw her. If there was a next time - he was so angry he doubted if he’d ever see the inside of Baker Street again.

Two years he’d grieved Sherlock, believed that his lover/partner/boyfriend had committed suicide right in front of him. Two years he’d cried himself to sleep. Two years he’d lived a ghost of an existence, merely going through the motions of being alive. He and Sherlock had been involved for almost a year before his jump. They’d never actually “come out” – hadn't had to, since everyone who knew them assumed they’d been romantically involved from the start.

Two years of a half-life. Then a new nurse started working at the clinic. Mary was witty, bright, pretty and from her first day she’d pursued John with a singular focus. While he admired her, at first he wasn’t interested – wasn’t alive enough to want to date anyone. Eventually she’d worn down his resistance. 

They’d fallen into an easy routine almost from their first date. It felt easy, comfortable; ___do-able___ to John. It didn’t take a lot of effort or energy on his part. It was nothing like the excitement, the passion, the adrenaline he and Sherlock had shared. 

When Mary suggested he move into her townhouse in the suburbs, he’d just gone along. It was the path of least resistance and maybe a little ___too___ easy. And if John didn’t love her like he loved Sherlock – well, ___good___. He didn’t ___want___ to love her that way. Maybe an effortless affection was what he needed. That’s what he told himself from the moment he woke until he fell asleep. He was done with grand love. - it just lead to grand drama.

Now Sherlock was back, popping “not dead!” on him and babbling about some secret website John was supposed to have known about. His fist clenched at the thought. ___Of course he’d make this into my fault.___ Well, fuck you very much, Sherlock Holmes, but John was sticking with the sure bet. Easy, steady, trustworthy Mary. Mary, who Sherlock had dragged into drama last night at the bonfire, risking her life on the back of a commandeered motorcycle, driving down staircases and along sidewalks. 

Well, John wasn’t going to expose Mary to Sherlock’s brand of crazy risk again. He’d done what he came for: thanked Sherlock for saving his life and said they could still be friends. Nothing in that mix allowed for Mary to be dragged into further danger.

He glanced at the file folder in his other hand. Sherlock had said it was his explanation and apology. Right now John wasn’t in the mood for either. It was still early. He’d pop round to his old pub, have a pint before opening the file.

John took a booth in the back, ordered a pint and stared at the closed file. “My explanation, my apology” echoed in his memory, causing him to wearily rub the heels of both hands into his eyes. He took a long pull from his glass to chase the memory away.

He dreaded what he might find in the file. It could blow his simple, easy, uncomplicated life to bits. But he had to know. He couldn’t survive on this anger forever. It took too much energy to stay this mad. He knew that he’d eventually soften toward Sherlock and hated to think of the implication that softening would have to he and Mary.

He knew he couldn’t stay mad at Sherlock forever. He’d missed Sherlock so desperately, ached for him so badly, mourned him through countless sleepless nights and meaningless days. And, god help him, he knew that Mary could never fill the Sherlock-shaped hole in his heart. He’d known it when he fell into the easy relationship with Mary; he knew it even more now that Sherlock was back.

He let his head loll forward, chin on chest, as tears sprouted into the inside corners of his eyes. God help him, he ___wanted___ to forgive Sherlock. He ___wanted___ to run back to Baker Street, tear open the door, throw him on the sofa and snog him silly. It hurt so badly to see Sherlock in the flesh, even more incandescent and magnetic than his memories of the man. 

Drawing a shaky breath, John admitted to himself that he’d throw it all away in a heartbeat if it meant he could have his old life with Sherlock back. He’d willingly never see Mary again, ditch his job at the clinic, his new friends in the suburb – all of it, for one night with Sherlock. And he didn’t trust himself not to do it. That’s why he could not, absolutely ___could not___ , forgive the man. If he did, and went back it all, Sherlock would set him aflame, consume him; he would burn like a magnesium fire until there was nothing left of John Watson, and he’d be an extension of Sherlock once again. And oh god, ___he still wanted it___. ___Wanted___ so badly. But he wouldn’t allow himself to do it. Not again.

The file lay on the table, innocuous manila cardstock somehow threatening him by its mere presence. John downed half his pint then plucked up the courage to open it. A tiny flash drive was taped to the inside of the folder. The top dozen pages of paper were stapled together precisely. A note in the top margin of the first page in Sherlock’s neat handwriting read: ___John, this is a transcript of the audio file on the flash drive. If you read this, please also listen to the audio file. Please know, the bicyclist was not a part of our plan for the day I jumped. I believe you suffered a concussion when you hit the pavement and may have post concussion syndrome as a result. I’m sure you’re aware that memory problems are one effect of post concussion syndrome. Thank you, Sherlock___. 

So formal, so ___cold___. John felt a shiver run down his spine. The touched the transcript of the phone call and thought of the words he’d heard just before Sherlock jumped. His stomach clenched at the memory of standing on the pavement, being struck by the bicyclist, staggering up to try to reach Sherlock, fighting his way through the crowd, taking Sherlock’s wrist, looking into his lifeless eyes. He downed the rest his beer in a gulp, trying to summon the courage to pick up the pages.

John read the transcript while clutching another pint, taking occasional gulps to buck up his courage. By the end he was shaking and sweating and breathing deeply. He picked up the next sheet in the folder. It contained a web address, user ID and password. Underneath, Sherlock had typed:

__

_**___John ~ Here are your credentials for our secure website. I posted messages to you, beginning the day after I jumped and ending two weeks before I so crassly announced myself to you. I have not deleted nor altered any of the postings. If you need proof of that, you can log in and see they have not been read or edited. I’m giving you this information to do with as you wish._ _ _ **_

****

**____I understand if you do not want to read these messages now. Just know that I posted each message in full faith that you would retrieve it the same day or within a few days. I set up the site one-way to protect myself – and you - in case I was captured. If I could go back and change one thing in my past, it would be to set the security for two-way communication so that I would have known you were not receiving my notes._ _ _ _**

****

**____Mycroft is the only other person who knew of this site; I needed his help to set it up on his server to ensure security. He does not have a user ID or administrator access. The messages are for your eyes only. If you do decide to read them, please honor our privacy and do not share them with any other person. Please believe that I have never stopped loving you. I always will. ~ Sherlock_ _ _ _**

****

John’s constraint nearly crumbled when the read the last sentence of Sherlock’s note. He bit his lips to hold back the mournful sound that threatened to erupt from his chest. He needed to get home to his laptop immediately. He needed to listen to the phone call, to hear Sherlock’s voice and his own, in order to believe it was true.

His memories of the events of that day were hazy. It’s true he’d struck the pavement head-first. He’d been dizzy and disoriented when he regained consciousness. His vision had been blurry, his ears had been ringing, he’d been nauseous, dazed and confused. He pressed a hand over his eyes when he realized he’d missed symptoms any first-year med student would have easily seen. Signs that he had, indeed, suffered a concussion.

He’d attributed all of these symptoms to shock over Sherlock’s shocking death. But all were also classic signs of concussion. Amnesia surrounding the traumatic event – another classic symptom of concussion. Everyone on the scene had been focused on Sherlock. No one had checked to see if John was alright. Everyone at the scene was also a part of the act, except the random bicyclist who had ridden in unexpectedly during the act, so they’d been focused on playing their part – too focused to pay much attention to the bump on the head that John had received.

John crossed his arms on the table and buried his head in them. ___Fuck___ what a mess. What an awful, horrible mess. He’d spent two years in abject despair – all because of one variable Sherlock could not have controlled. Sherlock had spent two years writing to him while believing John would be waiting for him at Baker Street when he returned. The sheer ___pain___ of the situation overwhelmed John. Waves of agony broke over him and he cried silently, mourning what he and Sherlock had lost.

Then a thought crossed his mind: ___Mycroft___. Mycroft had known it all. Yet Mycroft never contacted John, never let him know about the messages, never checked on John’s head injury. Mycroft had sat silently by while John “moved on” with Mary. Why? Mycroft, the meddling controller, had done nothing. John was suddenly furious at Mycroft. He had to know why Mycroft had stood back, done nothing, and let things get to this state.

John pulled out his phone, thumbing quickly through his contacts. There it was – he still had Mycroft’s number. He angrily jabbed the phone. Mycroft picked up after two rings. 

“Doctor Watson. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mycroft said coolly. He obviously found no pleasure in hearing from John.

“Doctor Watson, is it now? What happened to John? Hmmm, Mycroft?” John’s voice shook with rage.

Mycroft replied even more coolly, “It has been quite some time, John. And I understand that you and Sherlock are no longer together.”

“No thanks to you. I want to talk to you. Face to face. I have some questions for you about the past two years.” John struggled to modulate his voice. He wanted to shout, but instead bit out each word with vicious precision.

“Very well. I will send a car.”

“Yea, thanks. Send a laptop too. Mine’s at home, and there are some things I need to look up.”

“As you wish, John. Are you sure you want to know these ___things___? What would your fiancée think?”

“Just make sure there’s a computer in the car Mycroft. Leave Mary out of this.” John fought to control the quiver in his voice.

John heard Mycroft sigh again. “Very well,” he said then the line went silent, leaving John staring blankly at his silent phone.


	6. Accusations and revelations

Fifteen minutes later found John seated next to Mycroft in the backseat of a black town car. John had no idea where they were going. The darkly tinted divider between the front and back seats blocked his view of the road in front. He didn’t really care at this point. He just had to get the truth out of Mycroft.

At last Mycroft broke the silence. “I understand you have some questions. I will answer what I can.”

John glanced sideways at Mycroft, too angry to face him directly. He feared he’d punch Mycroft’s snide mouth if he looked at him too long. “Yeah, so. This website Sherlock set up. It seems I had a concussion. From when the biker took me down. I didn’t know, not until tonight. I just … ummm … thought it was grief. You know I thought he was dead, right?” John realized he was rambling but couldn’t seem to organize his thoughts.

Mycroft took over the conversation. “You suffered a concussion when you struck the pavement. No one realized it, not even me. That’s all true, John. Sherlock deduced the truth in the past two days. I’m sorry, John, truly I am. If I had realized at the time that you had an incomplete memory of your last conversation with Sherlock, my actions toward you would have been different.

John sighed and slumped into the seat. He was already exhausted by this conversation and it hadn’t truly begun. “Different how?”

“I would have informed you of the plan. I would have kept in closer contact. Please believe, John, I did believe you were doing a convincing job of acting like you were mourning your friend so that the world would believe he was dead. I silently applauded your act, up until the time you began dating Miss Morstan.” Mycroft’s tone turned to a sneer at the mention of Mary’s name.

Heels of hands once again pressing his eyes, John asked, “So, yeah, about that. You thought I’d just gotten tired of waiting for Sherlock?” John dreaded Mycroft’s answer.

Mycroft’s tone actually softened a bit. “I am sorry, but you see, John, based on your past behavior, I did indeed believe you’d grown tired of waiting. The string of girlfriends, the ease at which you’d _moved on_ from each. In fact, you even said those exact words to Mrs. Hudson. Why would I have not believed?”

A hint of unease tickled the back of John’s consciousness at Mycroft’s admission that he’d eavesdropped on his conversation with Mrs. Hudson. _He must have Baker Street bugged again_. Shaking off the thought as not the point of their conversion, John dropped his chin and admitted, “Yeah, I understand.” His voice betrayed a hint of the tears he fought to hold in at the thought of the parade of women he’d brought through Baker Street in the beginning. “But that was before. Before Sherlock... before we … before I loved him.”

Mycroft laughed briefly. “Love, John? I’d watched you treat girlfriends as no more than a disposable commodity. Why would I have believed you would treat my brother any differently?”

“Because it was _different_!” John erupted at Mycroft, frayed and at the end of his patience. “It was Sherlock! It wasn’t some silly woman. It was _real_.”

“Eighteen months. I suppose that would have been a respectable mourning period for a _real_ relationship.” Mycroft sneered. “How could I not have seen?”

John hung his head. “Yeah, about that. Mary asked me out. It was easier to just go along. I thought my best friend and partner was dead. I just didn’t care anymore, it was easier to go along with her than to be alone.”

“You are a decorated war veteran, an army doctor who operated under the most dangerous conditions. You pursued some of London’s most dangerous criminals for fun. And you expect me to believe you became engaged to Miss Morstan because it was _just easier to go along_?” Mycroft’s sneer intensified.

A tear slipped from John’s eye and splashed onto his jumper. He was too weary, too ashamed to even lift a hand to wipe away its track. “Yeah, I sound like rubbish. I guess I am. My only defense is that I really did believe Sherlock had killed himself. I didn’t know why, I didn’t understand any of it.”

Mycroft reached out and tapped the file folder lying forgotten in John’s lap. “And now. What are you going to do with this information? Surely you know how my brother is suffering. Knowing that you were waiting for him was the hope that sustained him through several truly horrible experiences.” He lifted a thin laptop from a black briefcase on the floor beside his feet. “I suggest you start with the most recent message and work backward. It will take you weeks to get through them all. Starting at the beginning may be a neater approach, but the messages truly relevant to your current situation will be the most recent. Work backward. It’s best for you, and for Sherlock.”

John took the laptop. Mycroft continued, “You will want privacy while you read. I can offer you the use of a safe house. It’s stocked with essentials and you can be undisturbed as long as you wish.”

John shook his head. “I need to get home. I didn’t even tell Mary where I’d be. She’s got to be worried.”

Mycroft nodded slightly. “I have already taken care of that. I suggest you make use of the house and give this your undivided attention. I’ve also notified your clinic you will need a leave of undetermined length. Paid, of course.” The corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifted slightly.

John hissed a breath between his clenched teeth. “Okay, then, Mycroft, I suppose this is your form of apology.”

***x***x***

John found everything he needed in the nondescript detached suburban one-story house. He’d been too upset to even notice the direction the car had taken. He didn’t know what part of the city he was in and was too tired to care. He found containers of prepared food, bottles of water and cans of lager in the white refrigerator. Thinking that he didn’t want to face what was coming on an empty stomach, he warmed a plate of roast beef and potatoes then ate it quickly while standing at the kitchen counter. Afterwards he cracked a can of lager, picked up the laptop bag and folder and headed down the hall.

The first door he opened was a bathroom, the next a bedroom. He entered and sat heavily on the double bed and pulled out the laptop and powered it on. He plugged in the flash drive, quickly stripped down to his pants and vest then turned down the pale blue duvet and slipped into bed.

When the laptop finished booting up, he double clicked the audio file and closed his eyes. Sherlock’s voice, strained and wavery, filled the room, followed by his own voice that sounded strangely flat to his ears. He held his breath while he listened to the conversation the first time through, not realizing he was doing so. Afterward he let it out in a loud gust, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut.

_No._ It couldn’t be true. All the suffering, all the pain, moving out of Baker Street, avoiding Mrs. Hudson because it was too painful to see her sweet, sad face … falling in with Mary, the affectionate relationship based mainly on sex and Mary’s bright smile and not much else… all of it, the huge _fucked up mess_ of it – never had to be. John need never suffer more than missing Sherlock while he was away and worrying about his dangerous mission. That would have been a damn sight better than mourning his suicide.

He clicked the audio file again, then again, then again until tears flowed. Tears turned to sobs, sobs turned to wailing and wailing turned to animalistic howls. He dropped to his knees on the floor beside the bed, bent double, gnashing his teeth, keening in agony. _No, no, no!_ He couldn’t have missed this. What must Sherlock think of him now? Did he hate him for what he’d put Sherock through since his return? John dived for his phone, wanting to hear Sherlock’s voice immediately, but found the phone dead, no service available.

Of course, Mycroft had cut his mobile service as a precaution to maintain the safety of the safehouse.

John leapt to his feet, pacing the small bedroom in agitation. He needed to talk to Sherlock. He jerked the bedroom door open, banging it against the wall, and rushed down the hall shouting “ _Mycroft!_ ” John knew the public rooms of the safehouse had to be under surveillance. He didn’t spot the cameras so he spun in the living room, shouting Mycroft’s name over and over.

A landline phone on an end table began to ring. John grabbed it savagely. “Mycroft! I need to talk to Sherlock _now_!” he shouted into the heavy receiver.

“Calm down, John. How many of his messages have you read?” Mycroft’s tone was neutral.

“I haven’t started reading yet. I listened … listened to the conversation. From the rooftop. I listened to it and I have to talk to him.”

“You have his number. This line is secured. You can call his mobile from it without endangering either Sherlock or the safety of the house. But I urge you to read his messages before you do. Read at least the last few. I don’t know what they contain, but Sherlock has told me of their importance.”

John nodded, knowing Mycroft could see him via the hidden cameras. “Okay, Mycroft, okay. Your way. I’ll read the messages. But then I want to talk to Sherlock.”

“As I said, you can call him any time. Goodnight, John.”

John hung up the phone carefully. He squared his shoulders then nearly marched back to the bedroom. The file still lay on the bed. He opened it and carefully took out the page with the website information. He opened a tab and typed in the information.

_YOU HAVE 412 NEW FILES_

“Four hundred and twelve files. All of them messages from Sherlock.” John started at the sound of his own voice in the deserted house. He double clicked the file with the latest date. His stomach churned while he waited for it to open.

_**My dearest John,** _

**_I hope you haven’t worried that I’ve been silent these past few weeks. I was captured by Moriarty's last cell in Serbia. At first I was merely detained but when I refused to cooperate, my captors resorted to more drastic measures. I’m afraid I will be in hospital for a few days, maybe longer. Mycroft tells me I’m lucky to have gotten out of it with a few cracked ribs, lacerations, contusions and bruises. I also have a respiratory infection but thankfully no pneumonia, and dehydration, anemia and malnutrition. Nothing that a few days of hospital care won’t fix._ **

**_John, I won’t go into detail here with what I experienced from Moriarty’s people. I’ll see you shortly and will tell you in person. Just know: it was you who sustained me. Thoughts of you got me through it all. No matter what they did, I knew I’d come through it and that you would be waiting on the other side. It is you, John, always you. Every blow, every lash, every punch was bearable because I was keeping you safe._ **

**_I lie here in this hospital bed longing for you. I’m imagining you, sitting here, holding my hand, maybe rubbing some cream into the sores around my wrists. You, stroking my face and telling me everything will be alright. I ache for you. When I get my arms around you, I will never let you go again. I will never leave you again._ **

**_All I want is to be with you, my dearest John. To sit across from you with a fire in the grate. To wind my legs around yours at night. To eat breakfast with you every morning. You and only you, John. You make me complete._ **

**_My heart is near bursting with the thought I’ll be home soon, that we can lay next to each other in our bed, that I can see your dear face in the morning. I long for the familiarity of home, of sitting across from you over dinner, of shaving next to you at the sink, of lying on the sofa with you, just listening to your heart beat. I’ve longed for that sound, dreamed of it constantly._ **

**_I’m tired –had to type this with one hand, as my left arm is strapped in a brace. The nurse is taking my laptop away so I will relax and heal. It will be bearable knowing that I’ll be able to kiss you, to hold you, to be held by you once I leave this hospital. Just a little longer, love, hold on just a little longer._ **

**_Yours always, Sherlock_ **

A little sound escaped John’s throat, startling him in the silent house. Sherlock had written this just two weeks ago. To him. Thinking he was sitting in his chair at Baker Street, praying for his lover’s safe return.

What was John doing two weeks ago, instead? He thought back. It had been another innocuous night at Mary’s house. She’d made pasta for dinner. She washed the dishes; he dried and put them away. Afterward they’d finished off the bottle of pino grigio they’d opened with dinner. They’d turned in early had had rather forgettable sex. Had it been good? If asked, John would have answered yes at the time. But now? _No._ Now he knew that the source of his excitement had been captured, beaten, rescued and written him a message one-handed from a hospital bed? Now, John burned with shame at the ordinary evening he’d spent while Sherlock poured out his heart with one hand because the other was strapped into a brace.

They’d never had the type of relationship that depended on endearments, pretty words or declarations of affection. His relationship with Sherlock had been man-to-man, based on shared excitement, adrenaline and passionate sex. Afterward there had been tender moments, holding each other while they slept, whispered “I love you” and “me too.” But they’d never rhapsodized on their affections – nothing close to what Sherlock’s note held.

Had John even thought of such things, that glorious year they’d had together before Sherlock jumped? At the time, probably not. He’d been too busy fucking roughly and being fucked hard in return. But after Sherlock’s suicide John had spent countless hours thinking of things exactly like Sherlock described. He’d composed countless love letters to Sherlock in his mind. Letters full of things he’d never said but wished he’d had. And now? Now he had the chance to say those things. Now he could tell Sherlock everything he’d regretted not saying before.

But first, he wanted to read a little more. He had the time. Mycroft had assured John that he’d taken care of everything with Mary and with work, so he would have the time to read these missives. John wanted to take full advantage of this opportunity to be cocooned from the world, to read and think and decide exactly what he wanted to say to Sherlock.


	7. Three Letters

John sat up all night reading through Sherlock’s notes. He’d taken breaks only to refresh his beer and the toilet. He’d moved around the house as he got stiff: bed to living room sofa to dining room table then back to bed. He’d nodded off mid-sentence with the laptop still on his knees.

The sun was high in the sky when John woke. Sunlight stabbed his eyes from the narrow slit between the curtains. He sat up, reeling with a pounding headache and overwhelming need to piss. He staggered to the bathroom then to the kitchen. He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and downed it in a single gulp. He opened cabinets and drawers and eventually found aspirin. He downed another water bottle with the aspirin then opened the fridge to find something for lunch. He grabbed a plated meal, heated it in the microwave and sat it on the dining room table. He quickly fetched the laptop from the bedroom and clicked on the next message in the queue.

The message was dated five weeks prior to Sherlock’s capture. John read:

> ****John, my dearest, I think of you nonstop. I’m so lonely, John, so alone. I’m in Mexico now, a tiny town in Chiapas state near the Guatemalan border. I hear there are some amazing Mayan ruins close by but don’t have the time nor the heart for sightseeing. I just want to take out M’s men here and get home to you. Maybe we can come here together; explore the jungle, see the ruins. I’d like that someday.****
> 
> ****I won’t give you enough details to endanger you if any of M’s remaining lieutenants find you before I get back. Suffice it to say, there’s a cell here running drugs and guns across the border, through the jungle and to the coast near Campeche. This region is remote, vast, and sparsely populated. It’s a good thing my Spanish is good and I can pick up accents quickly. My height alone makes me an oddity here. I’m having to darken my skin with bronzing cream to be able to even leave my hotel room and wear brown contacts. I even have to darken my lips! The locals don’t see many tall, pale Europeans and would never trust one. You would surely giggle to see me in this disguise.** **
> 
> ****I know you worry, because I know your heart so well. Just know, I’m doing everything I can to get back to you safely. As the months have dragged into years, I’ve grown so tired. What keeps me going is the knowledge that you’re safe, that you’re waiting for me. I could never have imagined the breadth and depth of M’s network, or that it would take more than a few months to clean up his web. The only thing that has kept me moving is you, John. Knowing that we will never spend more than a few days apart again. Someday when we’re old men, pottering about in our dotage, we will laugh about the break we had from each other and how it seemed so long at the time yet so short in memory. I long for this to be just a memory. I long for your lips on mine, your legs around my waist.** **
> 
> ****Always and only yours, Sherlock** **

Suddenly the food in John’s mouth disgusted him. He remembered a day, close to the date of Sherlock’s note. He and Mary had taken her car to the coast. It had been her idea and John had just gone along. They’d walked along the cliffs then found a rickety staircase leading to the narrow strip of beach below. It had been windy, and cold. The spray from the water clung to Mary’s hair and eyelashes. He’d looked at her, with droplets sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight, and thought to himself, __I could lover her. I should love her. She’s such an easy person to be with.__

But in the next breath, he’d admitted to himself he didn’t – he __couldn’t__. He wanted to, very much.

She’d turned to him and grasped his hand, probably waiting for him to kiss her. The setting had been nearly painfully romantic. Instead, he’d said “Come on, it’s chilly. Let’s find a warm pub and have dinner.” Mary’s face had fallen. It was then that John had decided to buy the ring, a decision made out of guilt and despair for not being able to return her love. For not being able to be the type of man that could kiss her in the salt spray on a narrow beach on a chilly, sunny day.

What a fool he’d been. What a __fool__ he’d been to commit to a woman he knew he couldn’t really love.

John scrolled past a few messages, picking another at random. He would go back later and read the ones he’d skipped.

>   
>  **  
> **My Dear Heart,**  
>  **
> 
> ****I’m finished in Boston but I’ll be leaving soon. It was laughably easy to wrap up here. Americans are such suckers for British accents. People nearly fell over themselves to help once I spoke a few words.** **
> 
> ****M’s head of operations for the New England states is a fool. It was child’s play to entrap him. He, along with 20 of his people, are in custody of the local police now. Boston’s finest also contacted the ATF, FBI and CIA. I’ll work with the agencies to ensure they close the rest of M’s net here, then I’ll be off to Mexico. I got some information from M’s people here that leads to the Mexico/Guatemala border.** **
> 
> ****It’s really beautiful here, John. I’m sitting in a hotel in Cambridge where room overlooks the Charles River. There’s a beautiful path along the river. Right now it’s sunny, the grass is intensely green, Spring is in the air, and the path is crowded with cyclists, joggers and couples out for a walk. I wish you were here. We could hire bicycles from the hotel, or perhaps we’d go for a run, then walk back afterward. Boston is a very progressive city; we could be together here, openly a couple, even hold hands, without a second look.** **
> 
> ****Every day, every new lead seems to take me further from you. I miss you so much and dream of you at night. My dreams are of ordinary days – riding in a cab beside you, eating across from you at a restaurant, walking beside you. I miss the moments that make up an ordinary day with you. Doing these things alone for so many months has worn on me. I’m lonely, I miss you, and I want to come home. I hope you’re faring better. I hope our friends are keeping you busy and cheering you – Mike, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. I wish you could give them my love. I hope they will forgive both of us for misleading them – but of course they will, once they find out it was for their own safety.** **
> 
> ****I long for you always, Sherlock** **

John double checked the date. What had he been doing then? Nothing stood out in his memory. Just an ordinary day. He’d probably woken early, cycled to work. Met patients, written prescriptions, referred some to specialists. Cycled home, had dinner with Mary, perhaps followed by sex. Just an ordinary day in his small, petty life. He’d been sleepwalking while Sherlock was taking down nearly two dozen dangerous international criminals single handed

. 

And the ordinary day Sherlock wrote about? Doing those things with Sherlock never seemed __ordinary__. Every cab ride was exciting when Sherlock sat beside him. Every restaurant dinner was a special occasion when he shared it with Sherlock. Walking the streets of London beside Sherlock made every step special. He’d never felt that way with Mary and knew he never would. He sighed and scrolled down.

>   
>  **  
> **My John,**  
>  **
> 
> ****I’m in Seattle. I don’t have much time but wanted to let you know where I am. I’ve secured a job as a dock worker. Imagine that, me in jeans, hardhat, steel-toed boots and a flannel shirt. It’s the best way to infiltrate M’s smuggling operation here. Seattle seems to be his main Western US port of both entry and export. I’m keeping my head down and eyes open. I don’t plan to be here long.** **
> 
> ****You’ll find this amusing: I’ve shaved my head for this disguise and bleached the stubble that’s left and my eyebrows. It’s disgusting, a sort of brassy orange color. I’m sure you would laugh to see me.** **
> 
> ****I plan to wrap up here in a few days – a week at the outside. Then I’ll be home. Home, John, home with you. Because home is you. There is no home for me without Dr. John Watson.** **
> 
> ****I love you, Sherlock** **

John winced. __There is no home for me without Dr. John Watson.__ He thought of Sherlock, sitting alone at Baker Street now. Home. __Home.__ Baker Street still seemed like Home to John. And the thought of Sherlock sitting alone in front of the fireplace, across from John’s empty chair, caused a pain behind John’s sternum. What was Sherlock thinking, sitting alone? Was his chest hurting as bad as John’s?

John scrolled, skipping more messages this time. He chose a file at random and read:

>   
>  __  
> ****  
> __  
> **Dearest John,**  
>    
>    
> 
> 
> **__**Greetings from Helsinki. I arrived in Finland late last night. I thought you’d be happy to know I’m finally sleeping. And eating. I’m trying to remember to eat at regular intervals. It’s more difficult without my blogger badgering me about meal times but I’m making an effort.** _ _ **
> 
> **__**I’m hoping to be done here in less than a week. It is certainly beautiful here but without you here with me, I find myself unaffected by the surroundings. I miss you, John. I would give anything to have one night – just one night, with you, in your arms, you here in my bed.** _ _ **
> 
> **__**Don’t think it’s only sex I miss (although I certainly miss that). I miss talking with you, the sound of your voice. The way light from the window glints off your hair. The way your skin smells in the morning. The way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. The way you bite the end of your pen while you’re concentrating. The way you cross your legs when you’re thinking. The line between your eyes when you’re angry. I miss every little thing about you.** _ _ **
> 
> **__**I know you are not a religious man, John, and neither am I. So you know it’s a mark of my desperation when I ask you to pray this operation will soon be over. Pray I find M’s people soon so I can come home to you.** _ _ **
> 
> **__**I’ll be praying, too. Yours always and forever, amen. Sherlock** _ _ **

John dropped his head and let his shoulders sag. Sherlock, asking him to pray. Sherlock Holmes, High Priest of the Church of Atheism, __praying__. Asking John, Ex-Catholic-Agnostic-leaning-toward-Atheist, to pray. John would laugh if it wasn’t so very, very sad. Sherlock must have been very lonely to have resorted to praying to a god he didn’t believe in. John’s heart felt like lead in his chest. He felt suspended outside of time, like he’d been reading Sherlock’s messages forever, like he’d been alone in this bland house since time began.

He no longer knew what to think about any of it. About Sherlock, about Mary, and most of all about himself.


	8. Silver lining

Mycroft hadn’t said he couldn’t leave the house, so John decided to take a walk to clear his head. He left the laptop on the kitchen table then tried the front door. It was locked and there was no lock mechanism on his side of the door. _So, Mycroft had locked him in._ John thought about yelling Mycroft’s name again, sure the phone on the end table would ring immediately but suddenly he just didn’t feel like engaging in the outside world.

Stepping out the door would mean facing the world, facing his decision - Mary or Sherlock? Stepping through the door would make it all real. Cocooned in the sparsely decorated house, John could pretend to himself that everything would work itself out. He knew he was being childishly optimistic, but at the moment, he took comfort in the thought that everything would be okay.

Dropping into one of the uncomfortable wooden kitchen chairs, John pulled the laptop toward him. He scrolled down several screens, wondering if he’d see a trend in Sherlock’s messages toward more intimacy. He clicked on a year-old message, from about the midway point in Sherlock’s absence.

> _Dear John,_
> 
> _Arrived in Krakow today. Intel points to a thriving cell here. I don’t actually know Polish, so I downloaded a learn-to-speak app on my phone and listened it on the eight hour train ride. I think I can get by, passably. Not as a local, or even a visitor from another Polish city, but at least enough to infiltrate and gather information from the local underworld._
> 
> _I realized yesterday that it was the anniversary of the day I left. I wonder if you remembered the date? Did you mark the anniversary in any way? I’d like to think you had a drink in front of the fire at Baker Street and maybe even gave a toast to me. Perhaps Mycroft dropped by and gave you an update on my progress. I pray he’s keeping you informed._
> 
> _I’m camping out in the former office of an abandoned factory for the moment. An apartment is supposed to be lined up by the end of the week. It’s cold in here - there’s no heater - but at least there is electricity to charge my phone so I can write this note to you. There’s a former Army cot, too, so at least I have somewhere to sleep. I’m in the cot now, fully clothed including the black parka I picked up last week (I already told you about that adventure)._
> 
> _My contact here also left a sleeping bag, so I’m stuffed into it trying to get warm. I’m thinking of you, wondering if you’re sleeping upstairs or in my bed? I’m hoping it’s my - our - bed, and that you’re snug under the blankets in your pyjamas and wool socks. Are you thinking of me right now? I’m nearly mad with wanting you. I wish I could unbundle enough to think of you and get off, but it’s just too cold to unbutton and unzip. Are you touching yourself, thinking of me?_
> 
> _Best end this line of thinking right now, while I still can. I think of you, always, and long to be with you again._
> 
> _Yours always,_
> 
> _Sherlock_

John puffed up his cheeks and blew out a breath. He felt flushed from reading Sherlock’s words and realized he was half-hard in his jeans. The thought of Sherlock, thinking of him jerking off to stay warm gave him a funny feeling.

The date was months before he’d met Mary. What had he been doing? Most of that first year was a fog. A fog of sleeping long hours, dragging to work and slogging through the day like swimming through wet concrete then going home and drinking his dinner to fall into bed and start the cycle all over again. It was less than a half-life - it had been a mostly-dead-life.

And the anniversary of Sherlock’s suicide? John had actually stopped at a Catholic church on his way home from work. He remembered how cold it had been inside the sanctuary. The stained glass windows were beautiful but did very little to block the biting wind. He’d knelt in an alcove devoted to the Virgin Mary, looking up at the statute’s serene face, and wondered if Sherlock had found the peace in death that had eluded him in life. He’d dropped a few pound coins into the box and lit a candle in Sherlock’s memory. It had been years since John had prayed in earnest or prayed with any actual faith but he tried that day. He asked the Blessed Mother to pray for Sherlock’s soul, to seek out Sherlock and comfort him. Head bowed, hands folded on the rail, John had let the tears fall that he mostly kept carefully in check. Alone in the sanctuary, he gave in to the despair that threatened to swallow him alive. He wanted to howl and tear at his clothing, consumed by grief, but he kept it tamped down. The only relief he’d allowed himself were the tears silently raining on his hands, still clutching the rail as he knelt.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d swayed on his knees, lips and eyes pressed tightly together, miserable. It had been dark when I’d finally struggled to his feet and limped out of the church on his numb legs.

He contrasted that night with Sherlock’s description of his night. They’d both been cold and miserable and uncomfortable but at least Sherlock had known that John was still alive. 

Anger burned in the pit of John’s stomach - anger at Mycroft for never telling him that Sherlock had faked his death. How could the man have thought it appropriate to let John think that Sherlock was dead? How could Mycroft have let him wallow in misery for months and months without giving him at least a hint that it had all been staged? John’s hands clenched. What had Mycroft been playing at? Why had he pulled away almost as soon as Sherlock’s ‘funeral’ was over? Why had Mycroft let him mourn, when it was evident to everyone who even slightly knew John that he was drowning in grief?

A headache settled in at John’s temples, a dull thump of anger and hurt and confusion. Sherlock and Mycroft had made plans without consulting him. At least Sherlock had explained the plan before he jumped and had thought he was keeping in touch and keeping John updated on his plans. 

He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly, making a conscious decision to table his anger and explore it again later. This time away, hidden from the world and his everyday responsibilities, was supposed to be his time to read Sherlock’s messages and to reflect - not to work himself into a rage at Sherlock’s dick of a brother. John resolutely picked up the laptop and headed back to the bedroom, confident in his belief that the bedrooms were not bugged.

Scrolling down another few screens, John clicked a message at random.

> _John,_
> 
> _I am in hospital in Vienna. Don’t worry, it’s only a stab wound and two broken ribs. Thankfully the ribs deflected the blade and saved my organs. Really, if I’d had a few rolls of medical tape I could have taken care of this myself. Unfortunately I blacked out on the pavement about a mile from the site of the altercation and a helpful citizen called emergency services. I woke up in the back of an ambulance and the unhelpful paramedics refused to let me go._
> 
> _So here I am. The facilities are rather nice. I have a private room. Mycroft has made all the arrangements for “Her Smythe” for a week in hospital. It’s actually a welcome break. I can rest in a safe place and let injuries old and new heal. If I prompted him, I’m sure Mycroft would arrange more time. I just may._
> 
> _I’m also using the time to catalog information in my Mind Palace. There’s a pesky bit of information that just won’t stay in its assigned place. It’s supposed to stay in the John room. Can you guess what it is? (That’s right, it’s the memory of our last night together. I miss you. God, I miss you!)_
> 
> _Love you more than you can know, Sherlock_

_Love_. John wondered if this note was the first time Sherlock had mentioned loving him. Someday John would take the time to read every single note and catalog their progress from friendly tone to loving. When had Sherlock realized that he actually loved John? Sometime during that first year away, obviously.

John thought back to the time he’d realized just how much he loved Sherlock. He’d held Sherlock’s lifeless wrist and called him a friend. He’d eulogized Sherlock at his funeral as a ‘great man’ and ‘a great friend.'

It was later that evening, back at Baker Street, still wearing his best suit from Sherlock’s funeral. He’d lit the fire and spent a long time just standing with his hands on the mantle, looking at the flames and letting tears flow. He’d realized then that what he’d had with Sherlock was more than friendship, more than sex, more than companionship. He’d loved Sherlock, probably from the first chase over the rooftops of London - the evening Sherlock had cured his limp and brought him back to life.

But he’d never even considered it when Sherlock was alive. It took his death to show John the depth of his feelings. 

John’s shoulders relaxed when he realized that something good had come from his mourning of Sherlock’s death. He’d had countless hours to reflect on just what he felt for his amazing flatmate. And every time, he’d concluded that he loved him.

Perhaps he wasn’t as upset with Mycroft as he’d earlier thought.


	9. Ruminations

**Ruminations**

John set the laptop aside and wandered into the kitchen. He rummaged through the cabinets until he found coffee and a coffee maker. He set it up on the counter and started a pot. He leaned against the counter and rubbed a hand over his eyes, dragging it down over his mouth. He felt the scratch of stubble under his fingers and realized he’d been reading, locked away in this house, for more than 24 hours.

A heavy sigh left John’s lips as his shoulders slumped. He realized he hadn’t eaten in hours and his stomach rumbled when he smelled the fragrant steam coming from the coffee maker. He opened the fridge and took out an already-prepared, plated meal. He popped it in the microwave to heat while he poured coffee and added milk. When the microwave chimed, he took the plate and mug to the living room.

No television, no radio, no newspaper, his phone deactivated - John felt very disconnected from the world. He decided to just think for a while. He needed a break from Sherlock’s messages so he sat down on the sofa and placed his meal on the coffee table. He ate mechanically while lost in thought. He thought about the juxtaposition of Sherlock, rounding the globe and risking his life while John had been living a routine existence with Mary. Of Sherlock alone, in ever stranger places with ever stranger disguises, while John muddled about suburban London mowing the lawn, taking out the trash, cycling to work to keep his weight check since he no longer had criminals to chase.

_Pathetic._ Just pathetic, John realized. His life – his dreary sleepwalking through endless days of the same thing, over and over and over. _Pathetic._ He might as well have been back in the dreary bed-sit he’d occupied before he met Sherlock, for all the enjoyment he had in life.

And he’d thought that falling into a ‘relationship’ with Mary had helped. Now he realized that he and Mary really didn’t have a relationship. It was more that Mary led and he followed. He just went along with what she wanted so that he wouldn’t have to be alone. _Pathetic._ John remembered the feeling of a true relationship with Sherlock. The thrum of excitement through his veins when he returned home, running up the stairs because he couldn’t wait to see the person he loved again. The discussions, debates, challenging each other, even calling each other insulting names that were really endearments. _Their_ form of endearment, because they had unshakable respect for each other. The joy in each other’s company, even if all they did of an evening was sit in front of the fireplace and read silently. Relating – really _relating_ \- to each other.

John stretched out on the sofa and crossed his arms behind his head. He closed his eye as he continued to think. _And the sex – Oh. My. God. The sex._ Mary was warm, comfortable, easy in bed. As far as John was concerned there was no bad sex. It was effortless with Mary, just falling into a routine of kiss-fondle-intercourse-cuddle without much effort on either of their parts. He’d just sort of gone along. It was like they’d been together for years instead of months.

But with Sherlock it had all been so different. Sex had been a battleground, both fighting for dominance, never sure of the outcome of each power exchange. The _excitement._ God, the excitement of it all. Each time could lead to so many different feelings: dominance, submission, tenderness, roughness, making love, or fucking. John missed it. _God, he missed it._ He couldn’t say he missed cock so much – while he’d known he was bi since he was a pre-teen, he’d definitely been more of a 2 on the Kinsey Scale than a 4. He could have been happy with a woman for the rest of his life. He would have never sought out male encounters again if he’d married Mary.

_If he had married Mary._ And that, in a nutshell, was John’s answer. His subconscious had skipped several steps ahead while his conscious mind had been ruminating. John sighed, allowing his mind to realize what his heart already knew: he couldn’t marry her. It wasn’t fair to him, it wasn’t fair to Sherlock, and it certainly wasn’t fair to Mary. Mary was a wonderful woman. She deserved someone who could love her without reservation – not a husband whose heart belonged to his best friend.

John stood, resolute. He knew what he had to do now but it was late, well past midnight. He’d go ahead and sleep here, then visit both Mary and Sherlock in the morning. He’d gather his possessions from Mary’s townhouse. Before night fell again, he’d be back home. Home, in Baker Street. Home, with Sherlock. _Home._

He went into the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. He found a thick white terrycloth robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. He went into the bedroom and pulled out a few drawers of the dresser. He found pants, socks, pajamas and t-shirts in a variety of sizes – obviously provided for the occupants of the safehouse to use. He found boxers and a t-shirt in his size, donned them quickly and slipped into bed.

John thought he’d drop off quickly, since he’d been up over 36 hours, but his mind churned endlessly. He pulled the laptop close again and decided to start at the beginning and work forward this time. Opening the first message that had been posted two years ago, he read”

> **John,**
> 
> **I’m sure you got a laugh out of my ‘performance’ yesterday. I’d intended a graceful swan drive but instead flailed about like a chicken attempting to fly. Wipe that smirk off your face because I’ll have you know I sprained my wrist from the flapping about. It bent under me as I hit the mat. Thankfully it was my left wrist so it’s not hindering me much. Molly gave me an air cast to wear on it for a few days and a sheet of exercises to begin after the swelling abates.**
> 
> **I’m bored to tears at one of Mycroft’s safe houses right now. I leave tomorrow, off to Belarus first. What I find out from Moriarity’s minions there will determine my next move. I will keep you informed.**
> 
> **I may have left a specimen or two in the back of the fridge. You might want to check any unlabeled containers. Sorry about that!**
> 
> **I will see you soon. ~ Sherlock**

John grinned. Yes, he’d found cat guts and sheep eyes in unlabeled containers in the back of the fridge but not until several weeks after Sherlock’s jump – not until the smell was so bad that he noticed it even in his grief. In a fit of emotional pain he’d pitched everything in the refrigerator then spent most of the night scrubbing every inch of it inside and out. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. _To think._ To think that if he hadn’t been hit by the biker, he would have known about the specimens the next day. He would have chuckled about Sherlock’s performance, not reeled in shocked grief. He would have stayed at Baker Street ( _Home_ ) for the past two years, struggling to put on the appearance of mourning his friend. If he’d only known!

He scrolled up, skipping a few dozen messages. The dates were not consecutive this far back in the site. Sherlock had not posted every day – let alone three or four times a day as he’d done much later. John clicked a random file:

> **Dear John,**
> 
> **I’m in Moldova today. I arrived after dark yesterday. M’s cell in Belarus pointed me here. Mycroft’s men were able to ‘persuade’ some of M’s men to share information – and here I am. I’m in a hamlet outside of Vulcanseti – Mycroft’s division has a house here. My Romanian is a little rusty so I’ll stay in a few days, studying to brush up.**
> 
> **Not much else to report. I drove overland from Belarus, which was an experience in itself. I hope I don’t have to backtrack to Ukraine. I never want to see that country again, even if I live to be 100.**
> 
> **Keep up the good work, John. Mycroft tells me you were quite the actor at my ‘funeral.’ I may have to find a way to nominate you for some dramatic award when I get back.**
> 
> **I’ll see you very soon ~ Sherlock**

John winced at the confident tone of the message. Sherlock had been so sure he’d take out Moriarty’s network in a matter of weeks and return home quickly. John wondered what other countries had Sherlock had visited. He’d take out a map once he got home, and a Sharpie, and draw out Sherlock’s travels. He’d open every message and plot them with pins on the map. He wondered if Sherlock could even recall his wanderings. But of course he could – he was _Sherlock_ , mind like a steel trap.

John finally felt drowsy enough to fall asleep. He shut the laptop and put it on the floor beside the bed. He didn’t even recall turning over - he was asleep that fast.


	10. Resolute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. Real life got busy then I got sick for two weeks. Plus, I'm not the type of writer who can write unless I feel inspired. But - there's finally smut, so I hope you find it was worth the wait.

John woke the next morning with a feeling of conviction. He knew the course he needed to take: gently end it with Mary; apologize to Sherlock; move back to Baker Street; spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to Sherlock how he’d acted since Sherlock returned. 

Or perhaps he should apologize to Sherlock first then talk to Mary. John rolled from the bed, grabbed some clean clothes from the dresser and headed for the shower. He felt more relaxed than he’d felt in over two years – since the day before Sherlock ‘died.’ He’d made up his mind and was ready to take action.

John decided to read the rest of the messages later, at Baker Street. He’d even like to read them with Sherlock, so the detective could fill in details. Perhaps he could even get Sherlock to tell him what he was feeling and thinking while writing each message. John realized it was easier for Sherlock to tell his feelings in writing than face-to-face, just as it was for John. But if they were to have a healthy relationship - with no walls between them - they’d have to start talking about things, no matter how painful.

The past two days had showed John that Sherlock’s feelings wore more complex than he’d ever imagined. The days had also forced John to think deeply about his own feelings. He felt clear-headed for the first time in two years. He realized now that he had not been fair to Mary – had never been, since the day they’d met. Mary had pursued him with clear intent and he’d just gone along because it was easy and accessible. He didn’t have strong feelings for her. He’d talked himself into feeling love, but it was a pale ghost of what he felt for Sherlock – and he’d known it at the time, but refused to admit it to himself. 

He winced at how unfairly he’d treated Mary. He’d used her as a distraction to crawl out of the pit of his mourning for Sherlock. It wasn’t fair to her. He genuinely _liked_ her. She was bright, amusing, quick witted and beautiful. But he didn’t _love_ her.

John dressed quickly after his shower and went into the sparsely-furnished living room. He wasn’t quite sure where the cameras and microphones were hidden, so he turned in a slow circle as he spoke. “Mycroft, I’m ready to leave now.”

The house phone rang immediately. John picked it up to hear Mycroft’s voice. “Hello, John. I can be there in half an hour.”

“Right, sounds good Mycroft.” John hung up. There wasn’t anything more he wanted to discuss over the phone. He went into the kitchen and found a plate of eggs and bacon in the refrigerator. He started the coffee maker while he waited for the microwave to heat the plated meal. His mind was at peace for the first time in ages.

He’d finished breakfast, stuffed his own clothes in a plastic bag he found under the kitchen sink, and retrieved the laptop when the doorbell rang. He opened it to bright sunlight and Mycroft Holmes, immaculately turned out in a charcoal grey suit.

He stood aside for Mycroft to enter. Mycroft remained standing, facing John with scowl – obviously waiting for John to speak first. 

“Well, Mycroft, I’ve learned a lot these past two days. First off I’ve learned I had a concussion I didn’t even recognize, and post-concussion syndrome I attributed to grief over Sherlock’s death. I need to ask your forgiveness for the way I acted during that time. Please understand, I truly didn’t remember most of what Sherlock told me from the roof of Barts.”

Mycroft inclined his head in acceptance. He remained silent so John continued. “I have a lot to apologize to Sherlock for. I will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for how I’ve treated him since he returned. I can’t even express how terrible I feel now that I know. If the tables had been turned, I know how distressed I’d have been.”

Another tilt of Mycroft’s head encouraged John to go on. “And, if he’ll have me, I’ll move home. To Baker Street.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows twitched upward. “And Miss Morsten?” His tone cut John like a knife.

“Yeah, there’s that. I’m going to end it with her.”

Mycroft nodded, two quick snaps of his head. “John, there are things you don’t know about Miss Morstan. Things I need you to know before you make any hasty decisions.”

John gazed into Mycroft’s eyes, confused and a little dazed. “What, you did a background check on my fiancée?”

“Of course.”

“Doesn’t matter now, Mycroft. It’s over.”

Mycroft inclined “his head once more. “Then there's no reason for delay.” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

Mycroft walked around to the far side of the back car. John opened the door nearest the curb and was surprised to find Sherlock seated in the middle of the rear seat. Smiling, John slid in beside him and pulled the door shut. After Mycroft was ensconced on the far seat, the driver pulled into the sparse midmorning suburban traffic.

John took Sherlock’s hand as if he’d done it a thousand times, not as if he’d never interlaced their fingers before. He pulled their joined hands to his lap and let them rest on his thigh. Sherlock’s eyes widened and one corner of his mouth lifted briefly but he didn’t remark on John’s action. 

After a few blocks John glanced up into Sherlock’s face. He now saw everything he hadn’t allowed himself to see two years ago - Sherlock’s devotion, affection and love for him. John smiled in return and spoke softly. “Mycroft, you might want to look out of the window for a moment.”

Mycroft’s brow wrinkled. “Whatever for?”

“Because I’m going to kiss your brother and you probably don’t want to see it.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes but complied with a sigh, turning his shoulders away from his brother and glaring out of the window.

John reached a hand to Sherlock’s nape and pulled him down gently. He paused when their faces were level and searched Sherlock’s eyes, waiting for permission to reinitiate a physical relationship with the man he now realized he’d loved for so long. Sherlock smiled and John saw the same realization reflected in those pale eyes that he hoped his eyes displayed. Moving his hands to cup Sherlock’s face, John placed his lips gently against Sherlock’s. He tried to convey all the tenderness he felt through the chaste brush of lips. He moved his lips to Sherlock’s cheekbone and planted the softest of kisses there, then on to the soft spot just in front of his ear. “I’m sorry,” John murmured softly. “Can you ever forgive me?”

Sherlock turned his face to brush John’s lips more firmly with his own, then kiss John’s temple. “There’s nothing to forgive.” Again a soft murmur, as intimate as they could manage with Mycroft looking pointedly away and the driver in the front seat with his eyes trained carefully on the road ahead. He brushed John’s lips again, then held John’s chin in his fingers and kissed him properly, tongue probing between John’s lips in a silent plea for entry. 

With a soft sigh, John relaxed into Sherlock and opened his lips to caress Sherlock’s tongue with his own. Before - before Sherlock jumped, before John died inside, before things got so complicated - they’d been lovers, but not loving. They’d vied for control inside the bedroom and fucked rough and dirty. Kisses, when they indulged, were more tongues battling for domination than a way to convey feelings.

But now, each brush of lips felt charged with emotion. When Sherlock’s tongue brushed John’s, it was as if a circuit closed in John’s body, flooding him with electricity. And from the sound Sherlock made in his throat, John didn’t have to be a genius to know that Sherlock felt the same. Sherlock shifted his weight, pulling John even closer, stroking John’s hair with the palm of his hand.

Lost in sensation, John didn’t notice the blocks passing by until Mycroft leaned forward and spoke to the driver, “Pull over here.”

Mycroft opened the door and got out, then leaned back in to speak to the driver. “Take them back to Baker Street. I’ll take a cab.” He shifted his attention to Sherlock and looked as if he’d speak. Instead he paused and looked between the two of them. Finally, he spoke softly, “Enjoy.”

Laughing together, Sherlock and John leaned into each other as the cab resumed traveling. They exchanged sloppy kisses between giggles. Soon enough their kiss turned serious and each tangled his fingers in the other’s hair. 

Only when the driver cleared his throat did they realize the car had stopped in front of 221B. John had the presence of mind to thank the driver as they tumbled out. 

Sherlock called out as they entered the foyer, “Mrs. Hudson!”

As if she’d been waiting to be summoned by her problematic lodger, Mrs. Hudson immediately opened her door and stepped out. “What is it? Oh, hello John.” Mrs. Hudson smiled, obviously pleased to see them together.

“John’s home. We can’t be disturbed.” Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist and pulled him up the stairs. “If a client comes, tell them to go away,” he threw over his shoulder.

John smiled sheepishly at his former landlady. “Hello, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock pulled on his wrist and John stumbled up a few stairs while giving Mrs. Hudson a sheepish smile over his shoulder. The air around them thrummed with gleeful energy and John giggled like he’d just chased a over several blocks of London rooftops. He tripped through the door to the flat with Sherlock still tugging him by the wrist. Sherlock rounded on him and grasped his shoulders in his still-gloved hands, pulling him close and crushing his mouth under Sherlock’s own.

It felt like it always had, like coming _home_. The give and take that was sex with Sherlock, trading control back and forth again and again, neither ever really ceding but instead backing off enough to let the other take the lead for the night. Sherlock cradled John’s head, forced his mouth open and pushed his tongue in deep, stroking the ridge behind John’s top teeth. He forced his knee between John’s legs, grinding his hip into the growing bulge at the front of John’s jeans.

Groaning in response, John wondered how ever he thought he could have lived without this. This excitement, this wild flame, this live circuit between them. How could he ever have thought he could have been with anyone but Sherlock, after he found out that Sherlock had never died? Groaning again, John reached up and buried his hands in Sherlock’s hair. He scratched Sherlock’s scalp none-too-lightly with his nails, eliciting an answering groan from deep in Sherlock’s throat. Moving his hands to Sherlock’s chest, John opened Sherlock’s buttons as quickly as his fingers could move. Soon the shirt hung loosely at Sherlock’s sides and John’s hands moved to the warm skin at Sherlock’s waist. “Sherlock,” he murmured, “I am sorry.” 

Taking a half step back, Sherlock regarded John solemnly, his gaze darting between John’s eyes. Whatever he was looking for, Sherlock must have found it in John’s gaze because he reached for John again with his answer, “You didn’t know.” The right side of his mouth tilted in a soft half-smile before he captured John’s lips once again.

Starting at Sherlock’s waist, John ran his hands slowly up Sherlock’s sides as they kissed. He broke the kiss when he encountered a ropy scar on Sherlock’s right side, between his lowest and next higher ribs. Thumbing the scar lightly, John asked, “What’s this?”

Sherlock held John’s gaze for a long moment before answering, “Later. I’ll tell you, later. Just. Not now,” and dipping his head once again to kiss John and press his knee between John’s legs again. Sherlock’s hands deftly dealt with John’s belt and flies. “Bed,” he murmured between kisses and John wholeheartedly agreed, pressing Sherlock away gently and preceding him down the hallway to the bedroom, kicking off his jeans and shucking his shirt along the way. 

A heaviness seemed to settle into the atmosphere once they crossed the threshold to Sherlock’s room. John sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his socks, watching as Sherlock shed his trousers. As Sherlock straightened up from removing his socks, John surged up and captured him in a tight embrace, crushing their lips together once again. Sherlock moaned and eagerly returned the kiss while pushing John’s boxers down over his hips until they fell to his feet, where John kicked them away. He cupped John’s face in his hands and wrested control again, kissing aggressively while he walked John back toward the bed, then pressing John’s shoulders until he again sat on the mattress.

Lowering himself between John’s spread knees, Sherlock took John’s erection into his hand and looked up at John with such a worshipful expression in his eyes that John gasped, then sighed and nodded his consent. That was all it took for Sherlock to eagerly engulf John in the heat of his mouth. Swearing loudly, John squirmed and tried to keep enough control to keep his hips on the bed while Sherlock sucked, licked and laved with every trick he knew that John liked. _Of course he remembered_ , John thought with the last of his self awareness, _he filed it away to use when he got home_ , and John leaned back on his elbows to watch Sherlock’s gorgeous pink lips circle his rock-hard cock.

But Sherlock was too good. Within a few short minutes, John pushed at Sherlock’s shoulder and gasped, “Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sat back immediately and looked up at John with a wry expression. He narrowed his eyes and John knew he was deducing him. “You’ve been having sex three - no, four times a week for the last few months. I am surprised that hasn’t lead to better self control …”

John huffed a laugh to cut Sherlock off. “But it wasn’t with the cleverest man in London. You know just what I like.”

Sherlock grinned wickedly while he rose, took John by the underarms and hauled him onto the bed. He crawled over John, caging him in with hands and knees and staring intently into John’s eyes. John shivered. He had never forgotten what it felt like to be the sole focus of Sherlock’s overwhelming attention. To feel so open and so cherished, knowing that Sherlock could read every thought and desire. 

John raised a hand to stroke Sherlock’s neck. “What about you?” 

“What about me?” Sherlock’s brows knitted in confusion.”

“How long …”

“I’ve been gone two years, John,” Sherlock murmured as his brow softened.

John’s mouth fell open as he realized what Sherlock was telling him. John had lived in an agony of despair for the first year he thought Sherlock was dead but even in those time, he’d often gone out to clubs just to take his mind off his own suffering, picking up random women and shagging them desperately for a few minutes of relief from the nightmare of his life. He never stayed the night - always, he went back to the woman’s flat - and he never even bothered to get a number. Afterward he’d spend a week or two in misery then repeat the cycle. He was a sexual being; he could never have imagined abstaining even in his worst grief. By the time he met Mary, he’d forgotten how many different women he’d fucked since Sherlock. And now Sherlock, gorgeous man who could have his pick of men, was telling him that he’d remained celibate for _two years_. But then Sherlock had the advantage of knowing this John was alive while John had believed Sherlock dead for that amount of time.

Still stroking Sherlock’s neck, John whispered, “Oh, Sherlock.”

“Stop giving me that look,” Sherlock growled. He took control again, fitting his mouth against John’s and tracing the inside of John’s lower lip with the tip of his tongue. 

A shiver ran through John’s body and he slid his hand down to Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock reached up and gently directed John’s hand to his hip then licked further into John’s mouth. 

Tracing small circles on Sherlock’s hip bones with his thumbs, John toyed with the low-slung waistband of Sherlock’s tight black boxer trunks. Sherlock leaned lower, his cotton-clad erection brushing John’s as he rolled his hips, his cock stroking John’s from root to tip, his bollocks pressing softly against John’s. 

Wanting _more_ , John once again reached for Sherlock’s shoulders, wanting to pull him _closer_ , wanting more contact. Again Sherlock took John’s wrist, this time guiding his hand to Sherlock’s arse. Only too happy to oblige, John threaded both hands up the legs of Sherlock’s pants and squeezed handsful of firm flesh. Sherlock groaned and ground against John, hips dipping to press in all the right places, his eyes locked on John’s.

Gasping, John gripped Sherlock’s arse cheeks harder, pulling him down while thrusting his hips upward as much as his pinned position allowed. Sherlock remembered all the little things that made John groan, the spots that John was most sensitive - of course he did, with his eidetic memory - but John wanted to slow things down and savor this night to reconnect with Sherlock. He lifted one knee in preparation for turning them over and taking control. But Sherlock made a sound low in his throat and John _saw_. He saw the two years Sherlock had been deprived of this closeness and he saw Sherlock’s need for release, his need for control, his need to reclaim what had been his but had been touched by other hands, other mouths, other sex. John flattened his leg and dug in with both heels, the better to meet Sherlock’s hips with his own. He pushed Sherlock's pants down as far as the elastic would stretch over Sherlock's spread thighs, stopping at the tops of his thighs. He stroked Sherlock's exposed thigh then caressed his bollocks gently.

Sherlock moaned and buried his face in John’s neck, panting hot against John’s sweat-damp skin. “Give me your hand,” he gasped. John licked his palm and threaded it between their bodies to capture Sherlock’s rock-hard cock. Sherlock’s skin felt hot and dry, distended over the thick vein that ran the length of his cock, and he shuddered violently when John stroked down the hot length. Taking a moment to readjust his hips to line up his own aching erection with Sherlock’s, John stretched his fist to accommodate the girth of the two of them together. Sherlock jerked like he’d touched a live wire then snapped his hips into John’s fist faster and faster, making little ‘aha’ sounds with each exhale until he shuddered and came, scorching John’s belly with his release. 

“Sherlock,” John ground out as he released Sherlock’s cock from his fist and began to stroke his own erection faster, “kiss me. Please.” 

Propping on his hands, Sherlock leaned over John to kiss him deeply, filing John’s mouth with his tongue, his taste, filling all of John’s senses with _Sherlock_. With a deeply satisfied groan, John added his own release to the mess on his belly, and Sherlock kissed him through it, kept kissing when John’s mouth went slack, kept kissing until John was once again able to return it to him. At last they broke apart when Sherlock lowered himself to his side, facing John, and leaned his cheek against John’s shoulder. John circled Sherlock’s shoulder and they lay loose and quiet while they caught their breath.

After a time Sherlock kissed John’s shoulder and said, “I’ll get a towel.” John made a soft “mmm” sound in reply while Sherlock pushed up from the bed and kicked off his pants. He went into the ensuite, still wearing his crumpled dress shirt. John listened to the sound of water running and Sherlock splashing, cleaning up before he dampened a flannel for John. He returned and handed the flannel to John, which John employed while Sherlock rounded the bed and climbed back in. Instead of laying down beside John, he sat near John’s waist and inspected John’s face gravely.

“You okay?” John asked softly.

“There’s something I need you to do for me.” Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

“Anything,” John said. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand where it lay on the bed between them.

Turning three quarters of the way away from John, Sherlock slipped the shirt from his shoulders. “I need your help with these.”

John gasped in surprise at the gauze bandages crisscrossing Sherlock's back, held in place with white medical tape. There were so many, it was hard to find a square inch of skin among them. Sherlock continued, “Mycroft’s been sending a nurse round every evening, but I have a feeling he cancelled that service.” He grinned over his shoulder at John, “Now that I have my own personal physician again.”

Stroking alongside the outermost bandage with the tip of his index finger, John made a sympathetic sound. “Christ, Sherlock. That night, at the restaurant...”

“Serbia,” Sherlock murmured, cutting off John’s thought before he could finish it. “A few did reopen from hitting the ground on my back, but it wasn’t much.”

John stroked upward until his hand cupped Sherlock’s nape. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Stop apologizing for things you couldn’t have known.” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Remove these so I can shower.”

John did, moving slowly and carefully to avoid reopening the healing wounds. When he was done, Sherlock stood and took the loose ball of bandages from John’s hands then retreated to the loo once again. 

John lay in the muted light of early evening, thinking of all that had transpired in the past few days while the white noise of the shower, combined with post-orgasmic lethargy, threatened to pull him under. He fought the sleepiness - there was so much they needed to talk about, so many plans they needed to make. And he remembered uneasily that Sherlock had not actually invited him to sleep in his bed. _Before_ , after sex, they’d always separated to clean up then headed back to their own rooms to sleep. But before, they’d only been having sex. They’d never exchanged tender words or even affection beyond a few moments of closeness while cooling down after orgasm. John yawned, too relaxed to worry much about it. If Sherlock wanted him to trot upstairs to his own bedroom, Sherlock would surely tell him. 

The next thing John knew was Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Sherlock stood over him with a towel draped around his shoulders and another tucked around his hips. “John, there’s a supply of bandages on the kitchen counter.”

“Yes, alright. I’m coming,” John babbled as he fitted together the events of the evening in his sleep-fuddled mind. 

Sherlock smiled softly at him. “Go on, shower first. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

John stumbled toward the ensuite as Sherlock went through the other door and down the hall. The warm water of the shower cleared his head, reviving him a bit. He used Sherlock’s shampoo and soap, absently lathering his body with his hands while he replayed the events of the evening in his mind. He realized that Sherlock had carefully controlled their actions since they’d entered 221B, subtly directing John to avoid touching his back, distracting John from embracing him fully, taking control so John wouldn’t be aware of his wounds. It dawned on John just how masterfully Sherlock had played it to avoid derailing their passion by having to explain scars and wounds. 

And now? Now that they’d both gotten off, now that they’d both cleaned up? Now that Sherlock had asked for his help dressing his wounds? Would Sherlock want to talk about it, or would he rely on the missives he’d written to John and avoid the topic? John winced and wished he’d taken more time, read more of the hundreds of notes, not just spot-checked. He would have had a more complete picture of just what Sherlock had suffered while he was away, of the scars mapping his once-flawless skin, of the wounds scoring his back.

After toweling off and finding his pants on the bedroom floor, John went in search of Sherlock. He found him sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of water at his elbow. Contrary to Sherlock's usual habit of either sinking deep into thought or filling every moment with frenetic activity, Sherlock sat quietly staring at the kitchen wall. 

“Hey,” John whispered and lay a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Sherlock shook his head. He laid his hand over John’s and squeezed. “Hard to believe, but I really wasn’t thinking of anything.”

John raised an eyebrow and gave him a rakish expression. “Was it that good? Did I fuck the thoughts right out of your head?”

They both laughed while John retrieved bandages, antibiotic cream, medical tape and nitrile gloves from the large stach on the counter top. He lifted the towel away from Sherlock’s shoulders and was relieved to find it free of blood stains. John snapped on gloves and went to work, gently spreading cream over the wounds with a square of gauze. “Looks good. You’ll have scarring but all of these wounds are healing nicely.” Affecting his doctor-mode helped John distance himself from the fact that he was cleaning wounds Sherlock had suffered while being tortured in an Eastern European dungeon. If he let himself think about it, John would fall apart. Instead he kept his mind on the task of cutting strips of bandage and taping them in place. Sherlock stayed silent. An occasional flinch was his only response to John’s ministrations.

When he snapped off the gloves and cleared away the supplies, John’s uneasiness returned. Sherlock had told him he loved him in his messages, but thus far this evening they’d both been tongue tied when it came to talking out their feelings. “Right, then. You’re all set. I’ll just head up now.”

Sherlock caught his elbow as John passed the table. “Head up? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Relief flooded John at Sherlock’s words. He leaned down and kissed Sherlock tenderly. “I wasn’t sure…”

“Good god, John. Did you not actually spend days reading my letters or are you too dull to pick up on what I so obviously stated?

John grinned down at Sherlock. He was _home_. They were finally home, together, and Sherlock’s insult sealed it. Everything else could wait until morning. They had lost time to make up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you notice - I managed to work in 'tongues battling for domination' in a way that wasn't too cheesy. I've always wanted to do that. :)


	11. Morning confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry it took so long to get this chapter out. But, you'll notice that the chapter count went up by a chapter. I've had the general idea for what I want the chapter to be rolling around in the back of my head for a month. Lots of things in Real Life kept getting in the way of my actually being able to write it out. 
> 
> It turns out that the chapter is much longer than I'd planned so I'm splitting it into two chapters. In this new arrangement, this chapter turns out to be mostly smut. I hope that makes up for the long wait.

John floated up from a pleasant sleep to the feeling of Sherlock’s lips pressed to the back of his neck. The soft brush of lips sent a jolt down his spine and up his morning erection. He turned onto his side and met those soft lips with a kiss. 

Sherlock tipped his head back on the pillow and smiled softly. “Morning,” he whispered.

The openness and trust in that smile momentarily took John’s breath away. The Sherlock that greeted him this morning was unlike any version of his flatmate John had ever encountered. _This must be what Sherlock-in-love looks like_ suddenly popped into John’s mind. The thought broke down the last resentment he hadn’t realized was still lurking in the back of his brain and his heart truly opened to the wonder that Sherlock was alive. _Alive_ , and _here_ , and they’d spent the night entwined together, sleeping peacefully after blazing-hot sex. He felt an answering smile stretch across his face and couldn’t have stifled it if he’d wanted. “It is a good morning,” he murmured and kissed Sherlock again and again.

Light brushes of lips turned into open mouthed presses and tongue stroking tongue, until Sherlock pushed up on his elbow and gently pressed John onto his back. John made a soft sound of protest, feeling it was his turn to lavish attention on Sherlock, but Sherlock continued kissing down John’s jaw and neck then traced John’s clavicle with the tip of his tongue. Giving in to Sherlock's attention, John threaded his fingers into Sherlock’s wild morning hair and gently scraped his fingernails over Sherlock’s scalp, which elicited a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock and even more vigorous kisses down John’s torso.

Skipping from navel to hipbone to hip crease, Sherlock littered kisses on John’s body as he settled between John’s legs. John watched and made a sympathetic sound at Sherlock’s languid movements - he was obviously moving carefully to avoid pulling the tape holding the bandages crossing his back in place. John heard a click, then Sherlock’s lube-slicked hand circled his cock and the other gently slicked his bollocks. Sherlock kept his mouth in motion, kissing the inside of John’s thigh, the soft skin just beside his sac, his kneecap - everywhere but the place John most wanted his mouth to be. 

“Sherlock,” John nearly pleaded.

John looked down his body at Sherlock’s upturned face. Sherlock’s eyes flashed playfully as he stroked over John’s bollocks and down his thigh, trailing his slick fingers through the wiry hair, drawing slick designs into the shiver-sensitive skin, then stoked his palm back up to firmly massage the root of John’s cock. The knuckles of his other hand brushed the back of John’s sac before his tongue finally replaced his fingers, laving John’s bollocks and perineum and trailing kisses over his thighs, drawing a full body shiver from John. John watched a tiny pearl of translucent fluid appeared at the tip of his cock as Sherlock kissed up his thigh, lingering at the place thigh became hip and ending with a wet swipe up his cock to gather the drop of fluid. Sherlock sat back between John’s thighs and licked his lips as he poured more slick into his hand then rubbed his palm together.

John watched Sherlock trail his slickened fingers up his thigh then further, rubbing three fingers along his perineum, trailing back until they met his cleft. John sucked in a breath between his teeth - they’d never done this, hadn’t even discussed it. John had had sexual encounters with men before Sherlock, but only using hands and mouths. He’d never even considered actual intercourse and had assumed Sherlock felt the same. _Before_ , their sex life had been very fulfilling without the fuss and mess and preparation that anal sex entailed. And John would have been content to leave it that way. But if Sherlock wanted more - if Sherlock wanted _that_ , then John would go along - happily. John would follow Sherlock to the ends of the earth and over the edge if only Sherlock asked. And he’d offer up his body for Sherlock’s enjoyment if that was what Sherlock needed.

But Sherlock’s slick fingers trailed light as feathers over John’s cleft then back up over his perineum. He slid his slick palms over John’s already-slick skin, down his thighs and up again, cupping his bollocks, stroking once over his flushed-red erection.

Sherlock carefully got to his knees and climbed over John’s leg to settle behind his back. John rolled to his side facing away from Sherlock. He let his top knee fall forward, opening his arse for Sherlock, nervous but excited at the same time. But Sherlock gently lifted John’s leg and stacked it on top of his bottom leg. Sherlock made a quiet shushing sound. John bit his lip, confused and a little alarmed at what his unpredictable flatmate might have planned. He craned his neck as far as possible and saw that Sherlock’s hand was around his cock, lining it up with John’s opening. Alarmed, John nearly whined, “Sherl…”

But Sherlock’s long, slick cock slipped effortlessly between John’s thighs and John let out a small sigh of relief in place of the last syllable of Sherlock’s name. Sherlock scooted forward until his body pressed John’s from chest to knee. He reached around and took John’s bollocks in his slick-wet hand, then pressed his hips against John’s backside until the tip of his cock nudged the backs of the tender sac.

John let his head drop forward on the pillow so he could see what was going on below his waistline. His cock stood flat against his belly, weeping and flushed, and below it Sherlock’s big hand cradled his bollocks. Sherlock’s fingers stroked gently and John drew in his breath on a groan when he realized that Sherlock was stroking both John’s sac and his own cock, the underside of the head where it nestled against John’s bollocks. 

The thought of Sherlock stroking them both together sent a jolt of fire to the pit of John’s stomach. His head dropped back against Sherlock’s and he groaned - loudly. “Oh, God, Sherlock!” 

John felt more decadent than he’d ever felt, dripping with silicone lube from hip to knee, Sherlock’s hand stroking his bollocks in just the right places while stroking Sherlock’s frenulum at the same time, Sherlock making tiny “ah” sounds behind him on each exhale, the heat of Sherlock's chest, the Sherlock’s bony knees behind his own. John felt hedonistic and wanton and suspended in time, fully given over to Sherlock’s attention. He pushed his arse back against Sherlock as far as he could go, not wanting a single millimeter of space between them, then he rocked forward against Sherlock’s hand, moaning and panting. As he watched, another bead of precome pumped from his cock and dripped onto his belly, then another. 

More turned on than he’d ever been in his life, John was already on the edge. He wanted to come - but he also never wanted this to never end. “Sherlock, I’m close,” he gasped.

Placing a kiss on the tender skin behind John’s ear, Sherlock murmured, “Wait for me.” Sherlock’s hand shifted. His thumb and forefinger formed a tight ring around the base of John’s cock. He held on tightly. 

They held still, both hands and body motionless while Sherlock's lips lingered on John’s temple in a soft caress while he made soft comforting sounds. John pulled in long breaths through his nose and blew them out his mouth and relaxed his weight against Sherlock’s firm form behind him until he felt the fire recede a little. The ember still glowed in his belly but the urgent, white-hot flames subsided.

Sherlock felt the shift in John. He released his grip on John’s still-weeping erection and instead gripped John's hip as he began to move, slowly and carefully thrusting his cock between John’s muscular thighs.

John reveled in the new sensations: the hardness of the top of Sherlock’s cock sliding against his perineum, the glide of the bottom of it against his thighs, the nudge of its head against his bollocks on every stroke. And the _sounds_ \- Sherlock made the most delicious sounds, panting and moaning softly, “ah” and “oh” and John’s name. _John_ had never sounded so decadent in Sherlock’s mouth and John wished he had a mind palace to store the way Sherlock said it just then. John squeezed his thighs and Sherlock groaned and John joined him, not even trying to stifle the sounds bursting from his throat.

John strained his head over his shoulder, opening his mouth, licking his lips to make them wet and inviting. Sherlock rose to his elbow to claim those alluring lips, fitting their mouths together for a sloppy, wide-open kiss punctuated with pants and moans. John opened his eyes, taking in Sherlock’s face so close, flushed pink with exertion and arousal, a sheen of sweat plastering his curls to his forehead and temples. John wanted to touch Sherlock’s face, to sweep the wet curls away from Sherlock’s high, fine forehead but he knew if he moved his hand away from where it braced on the mattress, their delicious rhythm would be in jeopardy. 

Sherlock moved his hand from John’s hip to his cock, stroking in time with his thrusts between John’s thighs, and John broke the kiss, buried his face in the pillow and nearly sobbed in desire. Stroking downward as he thrust forward then upward as his hips moved backward, Sherlock worked John’s cock in time with his own. John wanted it to go on and on and on but Sherlock’s hand stuttered as John felt the first hot splash of Sherlock’s orgasm on the back of his sac. 

Groaning, John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. He stroked in time with his own thrusts, rocking his own hips back into Sherlock’s pelvis then forward enough for Sherlock to get the friction he needed to come and come. Sherlock’s hips stuttered out of tempo but John’s rhythm worked him through his orgasm and allowed John’s to build. Soon John’s orgasm joined Sherlock’s, pulsing over their hands while Sherlock’s pulsed between John’s thighs. Their groans reached a crescendo together then they collapsed against each other, utterly spent and sated.

John released his softening cock from their grip and threaded his fingers between Sherlock’s. Holding tightly, John brought their sticky hands to his chest and pressed them against his hammering heart. Happiness bubbled in his chest and erupted as a giggle. He felt Sherlock sift away slightly, just enough for John to turn onto his back. John rolled his shoulder as he lay on his back with Sherlock still pressed against his side and their hands still grasped together on John’s chest. 

They both erupted in a fit of giggles. John felt _happy_ \- happier than he’d felt since weeks before Sherlock had jumped off Bart’s. The absence of his now-released resentment and anger left him feeling light, like me might just float right off the bed. But that would mean leaving Sherlock - which just wasn’t tolerable. He turned his head into Sherlock’s and nuzzled the side of Sherlock’s stubbly jaw with the tip of his nose. Then he drew back and met Sherlock’s laughing-bright eyes.

“I love you,” John said. It felt right, and true, and effortless. “I really do.” He smiled, joyful to be able to finally be able to say those words without complications.

Sherlock answered without hesitation. “I know. And I, you.” He laughed again, a sound of pure joy from deep in his chest and scooted his body down the bed until he could rest his cheek against John’s shoulder. 

After a while, John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “I suppose we should get cleaned up.”

Sherlock squeezed back. “Couple more minutes,” he answered.

“I do have things to do today,” John continued. “Get some clothes from Mary’s, talk to her, arrange to get the rest of my stuff.”

“Friday, 9 a.m.”

John looked down at Sherlock. “Hmm?”

“I arranged a moving van, two men will meet you Friday morning at 9 to get your possessions. I figured a van would be sufficient, that you’d want to give Mary the furniture.”

John smiled. “Presumptuous of you, isn’t it? Maybe I want the furniture. Maybe I need a large lorry.”

“Where would you put it? We’re full up here.”

John laughed softly and conceded the point. “I still have to talk to Mary. To explain things to her.”

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. “I knew you’d want to do the honorable thing. Dull. Surely she’ll have figured it out by now.”

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice a little sharp. “I owe it to her to explain. I don’t know what Mycroft’s been telling her these past few days but I’m sure she’s worried sick with wondering where I am. We’ve been living together, I was going to ask her to… well, you know. I have to go see her. Today.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes but didn’t answer. But he also didn’t move away, his cheek still on John’s shoulder and his fingers twined with John’s.

“I need to check in with the surgery, too. I’m sure they wonder if I’ve disappeared.”

“Dull!” Sherlock drew out the word to almost a moan. “I have plenty of money. You don’t need to work. Just call them and tell them you won’t be back.”

“Just a minute, Sherlock. It’s my job. It’s important.” 

Sherlock rolled his head against John’s shoulder. “I have two years’ MI6 wages, untouched, in my account. We can live for years off of it if we’re frugal.”

John shifted slightly so he could clearly see Sherlock’s face. “Wages? Did you say …”

“Yes! I said MI6. Who do you think sponsored my campaign against Moriarty's network?” Sherlock grinned mischievously. “How do you feel about sleeping with a spy?”

John laughed again, deep and long. “Not just sleeping with a spy,” he said affectionately. “In love with one. Imagine, you were working for Mycroft when I thought you were dead.”

Sherlock nuzzled John’s shoulder. “Pays well. I can try to get you on at MI6 if you’d like.” 

“Oh no, one spy in the family is enough. I’m quite content at the surgery.”

“Two.”

“Hmm?” John questioned.

“Two. Spies. In the family.”

John licked his lips. The answer dawned on him suddenly. “Mycroft.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Two then, that’s enough. I need to check in at the surgery about my job, while I still have one.” John rolled toward the far side of the bed and stood. He watched Sherlock roll onto his stomach, taking the place John had just vacated. John looked down at his long back, beautiful except for the white medical tape. No, beautiful even with it. “I’m going to get a shower, have breakfast, then head out. I’ll be back before dinner.”

Sherlock gestured that he understood with a vague wave of his hand, half asleep. John bent and kissed his cheek. “Wash those sheets while I’m out,” he said over his shoulder as he headed into the loo.


	12. An ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I keep intending to write a chapter of short vignettes to wrap up the story but they keep evolving into entire chapters. Sorry for the long wait, but you'll notice that I increased the chapter count by (another) additional chapter. I do have the last chapter written. I just need to wrap up a few things before we get to that final chapter. Thank you to anyone who is still sticking with this fic!

Once they were showered and dressed and filled with the bacon John cooked and coffee Sherlock made, John kissed Sherlock tenderly and headed out to settle his affairs. He was eager to get the confrontation with Mary over with. Never one to put off unpleasant tasks, he decided to see her first. Stopping at the surgery afterward would be a good way to take his mind off of the hurt he was sure to cause her. He winced as he walked, thinking of the pain it would be necessary to inflict on her to end their relationship. He thought they may be able to remain friends - he hated to leave any relationship on bad terms. He’d thought he was in love with her. He didn’t want a bad breakup to tarnish those memories.

The bus ride to their suburban flat gave him time to think. And time to regret that he hadn’t picked up flowers when he was in the center of town. Now, he’d need to walk many blocks out of his way to get flowers, so he decided to skip it and head right to Mary’s flat.

He let himself in the front door and called out ‘hello.’ A very surprised Mary met him in the living room, pulling him tight and telling him how relieved she was that he was finally home. John endured her embrace for a reasonable amount of time, then grasped her arms and held her at arm’s length. 

“Mary, there’s something I need to tell you.” His tone sounded somber to his own ears.

Mary crooked her head and replied brightly, “What is it, John? That you’ve been off working for MI5?” She laughed briefly.

John slid his hands down her arms until he could grasp her hands. “No, it’s more. Um, personal. Come on, let’s sit down and have tea. We can talk.”

Mary preceded him into the kitchen. She leaned against the worktop and faced him. The bright morning light highlighted every line that time had carved into her face. “Well?” 

Taking her hand, John cleared his throat. “Mary. I think we need to. Um, you know. Live apart from each other. A lot of things have changed for us lately. And we need to evaluate if this is working … for both of us now.” John’s gaze had dropped to the floor as he spoke but he met her eyes at the end, hopeful that she understood.

“No,” Mary said softly. She gave John a slight shake of her head. Her eyes still sparkled and a small smile played at the corners of her mouth.

“I’m sorry Mary. Really I am, but it’s just not going to work.” John felt a pain behind his sternum at the thought of the pain he was necessarily inflicting on the woman he’d thought he loved.

She laughed bitterly. “I said _no_ , John. That’s _not_ the way it’s going to be.” She paused and gave John a not-quite-right smile that caused a cold chill to run down his spine. “You had your little fling with Sherlock. And I’m going to forgive you for it. I can’t say I didn’t see that coming, when he turned up again. You got it out of your system.” She smiled again, tilted her head and lifted her eyebrows. “And now it’s time for you to come home. And I _will_ forgive you. You’ll have to pay for a while, but I will. You’ll see.” She pressed her lips together and gave John an expectant look.

John felt a tinge of alarm in his chest. Something was definitely off about Mary. _Very off._ He licked his lips, stalling for time as he glanced around the kitchen to assess the situation. He stopped stock still when he noticed the ring he’d bought but had hidden in the back of his sock drawer, now twinkling on the third finger of her left hand. It was obvious that she’d found it while he was gone, taken it out of the box and began to wear it. He hadn’t asked her to marry him, not really - Sherlock had interrupted his hesitant, faltering proposal.

The chill he felt turned to fury at her presumptuousness. What kind of person would do such a thing?

“It’s not a fling, Mary. I didn’t intend it to end this way but let’s try to handle it like adults. I’d like to be friends.” He smiled to disguise the fury still lapping at his jaw, making his teeth clench painfully. He had no desire to be friends - he just wanted to get his things and leave.

Mary turned toward the worktop and opened the flatware drawer. John couldn’t see what she pulled out until she turned and pointed a small, black and stainless steel .22 pistol at his chest. He noted the suppressor attached with rising alarm. 

It was mid morning - the neighbors on either side, and even on the storey above their flat, would all be at at work. Even if someone was at home they’d be unlikely hear the faint _zing_ the pistol would make with the silencer in place.

“You’re not going anywhere. And I’m not going to share you with Sherlock. You had your fun, now let it go. _It’s over_. You are _mine_ , John.” Mary’s casual tone of voice, paired with the twinkle of good humor in her eyes, were a bizarre contrast to the matte black and gleaming silver of the gun in her hand. 

John held up his hands in front of him, palms toward Mary. He spoke slowly and soothingly. “Okay, Mary. Just, um ... Put that down, okay? We can talk. Let’s sit down. How about you put that away? And turn on the kettle? We can talk over tea.” He edged toward the kitchen table and drew out a chair for Mary, then slowly scooted around the table to the other side. He stood behind his chair, facing Mary and the still-poised gun. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s talk this out.” He sat, smiling reassuringly and leaving both hands in sight, flat against the table. The sound of his heartbeat thudded in his ears, nearly drowning out all other sounds in the room.

Mary filled the kettle and flipped it on. She laid the gun on the worktop as she got out the teapot, tea and mugs. John felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck. Was this his chance? Should he lunge for it, try to knock her out of his way? Perhaps he could grab the kettle and use it to knock her out. He glanced up just in time to catch Mary’s eye as she turned toward him. She frowned so John smiled brightly in return. He kept his breathing in check, willing his muscles to relax. He didn’t want Mary to pick up on the tension he felt. Something was very, very off about her and John wasn’t sure how much it would take to push her over the edge.

They remained silent while waiting for the kettle to boil. Mary kept her eyes on the kettle and John kept his on her. At last, she filled the teapot and carried it and their mugs to the table. “There,” she said brightly. “There’s nothing that a nice cuppa can’t fix. Right, John?” She smiled at him, crinkling her nose in the way that John used to find charming. Now, it made him swallow nervously.

Reaching for his mug, John answered quietly. “Sure, Mary.” He took a too-hot sip just to fill time while he silently calculated a way to disarm his former girlfriend. Who had now appointed herself his fiancee.

Mary also sipped. She set her mug back on the table and laid the gun beside it. “Okay, now that that’s all settled.” She giggled. Her eyes twinkled mischievously and John felt bile rise at the back of his throat. She continued, “We can put it behind us. I knew from the start you had _feelings_ for Sherlock.” Mary rolled her eyes and smirked when she said the word ‘feelings.’ “You didn’t hide it well at all. But he was _dead_ , John. I thought it would be okay. And now look at what he did to you, jumping off a building and making you think it was your fault. I don’t care how good looking he is, that’s just unforgivable.” She paused at looked at John, obviously waiting for his agreement. 

John swallowed and nodded. As long as he kept her talking, he could buy time. He just had to keep her placated. With a feigned smile, he reached across the table for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You’re right, Mary. He did do all of that.” It was a throw-away answer but seemed to satisfy her. She smiled and picked up her mug, wrapping both hands around it. 

John’s Army-trained instincts took over and he reached for the gun, striking as fast as a cobra. Before Mary had time to process his blur of his movement, the tables were turned and she found the gun pointed at her own chest. The look she gave John was pure dismay. “John?” she asked weakly.

“Put the mug down and keep your hands flat on the table,” Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers ordered. 

Without removing his eyes or the gun from his former girlfriend, John fished in his trouser pocket for his phone. Just as he dialed 999 by feel alone, the kitchen door banged inward with a crash. Four uniformed police officers rushed in and surrounded the table. Throughout the pandemonium, even as he gained his feet, John’s hand never wavered as it held the gun on Mary. 

Detective Inspector Lestrade followed the officers at a slower pace. “Well, what have we here? A little domestic, is it, John?” 

John nodded toward Mary. “Yeah, you could say that. You could also call it a bad break up.” He glanced back at Lestrade while he lowered the gun to the table. “You’ll find her prints on this. Of course, mine too now.”

As the last words left John’s mouth, Sherlock entered the kitchen. A knowing smile spread across John’s face. “You followed me.”

“Of course I followed you. Good thing, too. I saw it all through the kitchen window. Spot of good luck that Mary never put up any blinds in the kitchen, isn’t it? I called Lestrade as soon as she pulled the gun.”

One officer pulled Mary to her feet and another cuffed her hands behind her back. Lestrade directed them to take her to the police cars that waited in the back alley. “Go on, book her. I’ll be along in a bit.” 

Tears flowing freely, Mary spoke to John as she was escorted out with both elbows grasped firmly in two officers’ hands. “How could you? How could _you_ do this to _me_?” She gave Sherlock a sharp look. “For _him_! He doesn’t love you, not like I do.”

The smile John gave her was cold as steel. “That’s right. He doesn’t love me like you do. And thank god for that.” He gestured toward the back door and the officers lead her out.

John looked up toward the ceiling and sighed loudly. “Do you really follow me everywhere?” He sat heavily in the chair he’d vacated. Sherlock took Mary’s former seat and Lestrade took the seat beside John. 

“I followed you this morning because Mycroft shared with me that he has information on Mary. Nothing solid, just hints and rumors of very dark things. I thought it best to monitor your interaction with her.” Sherlock held John’s gaze. One corner of his mouth crooked up. “Good thing, isn’t it?”

John raised an eyebrow and turned his attention to Lestrade. The DI shook his head and spoke, “I got a call from Sherlock and relayed the information to Dispatch. Thankfully there were two squad cars on patrol in the area. I left immediately but only got here as the action ended.”

“What the fuck!” John blurted. “If Mycroft knew something about Mary, why didn’t he tell me?” John’s voice shook with suppressed fury.

“Why indeed?” Sherlock’s tone was light but the look in his eyes was grave. He cocked his head slightly and held John’s gaze. 

Making a fist, John growled, “I swear to god, Sherlock, I am going to throttle that brother of yours. First he didn’t tell me that you were alive. Now he knew something about Mary. And didn’t tell me.” He banged his fit on the table. “He uses me like a goddamn puppet!” 

Lestrade got to his feet. He gestured toward the door. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I can gather your statements later. I want to get back to the station for her booking.”

John rubbed a hand down his face. He stood and followed Lestrade toward the front door, followed by Sherlock. John could hear the reassuring sound of Sherlock’s footfalls behind him. He paused to pull the door shut then continued down the steps after Lestrade. When he reached the bottom of the short staircase, John realized that Sherlock was no longer at his back. He turned to find Sherlock slumped on the top step, head hung low, elbows propped on his knees with both hands buried in his hair. John climbed the few steps to him.

Reaching out to touch his shoulder, John murmured, “Sherlock?” He could see that Sherlock’s hands were trembling. Sherlock’s chest expanded to maximum capacity, then he let out the breath on a shaky sigh. He kept his face averted and his head braced in both hands.

John sat on the step and ran a hand soothingly down the back of Sherlock’s head, stopping to squeeze his nape. “Hey, Sherlock. It’s okay.” 

Shaking his head roughly, Sherlock finally spoke. “It’s not. Okay. She… the gun. She could have shot you.” He released his grip on his hair and lifted his face to meet John’s eyes. “And I just stood there. All I could do was make a call. And you had a gun pointed at your heart.”

Sherlock gasped again and John noticed that he’d begun to shiver violently. He wrapped both arms around Sherlock and pulled him close, holding him gently to avoid opening up any of the wounds still healing on his back. “Shhhh,” he soothed, gently rubbing Sherlock’s neck with one hand. “You did the most important thing. You called Lestrade. And now, she’s going to gaol. We’ll find out what your brother heard hints of. And she won’t be able to hurt us. We’re safe now, Sherlock. Because you called.” He buried his face in Sherlock’s curls then turned his head to kiss Sherlock’s temple. “You’re amazing, you know. If you hadn’t followed me…”

A wet sound burbled from Sherlock’s throat, cutting off John mid-sentence as his arms circled John’s torso and grasped tightly. John continued soothingly. “Come on, let’s get home. Let’s get up. Can you?” Sherlock nodded against John’s shoulder and disentangled himself. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Sherlock drew in a calming breath. John stood first. He reached a hand down for Sherlock, who took it and squeezed tightly while he rose. 

Hands still clasped tightly, they followed Lestrade to the kerb where a cab waited behind Lestrade’s car. They exchanged a few more words with the DI then settled into the cab for the ride back to Baker Street - back _home_.


	13. Falling apart, holding together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. Family life has been hectic plus the 4th Quarter is the busiest time for my IRL job - that's why this took so long. The good news is, I have the next chapter half done and the final chapter completely done, so it won't be such a long interval until the next chapter is up. 
> 
> Here's some rough sex to make up for the long wait. And to anyone who continues to read despite my irregular posting schedule - thanks for sticking with my fic!

Sherlock spent the cab ride home looking out of the window, calming by degrees. But John could feel residual tension in the hand he still held. He figured it was caused as much by Sherlock’s shame at having broken down as by the events leading up to his break down. And John, as a battle hardened veteran of Kandahar and Helmand Province, packaged up his shock at seeing his girlfriend point a gun at his chest and stuffed it to the back of his mind. He was good at doing that. Why process the horror of life if he didn’t have to? Just live through it and move on - that’s what had worked for 38 years. Why change it now?

Looking out the opposite window from Sherlock, John slowly rubbed his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand, drawing soothing ellipses over and over. Lost in his musings, the sights of London blurred around John until he was suddenly jerked back into himself as the cab stopped at Baker Street. Sherlock flinched. It appeared he’d also been lost in his thoughts. John got out first and unlocked the door to 221 while Sherlock paid the cabbie. He stood back and waited for Sherlock to enter then preceded him up the stairs. The silence they’d kept in the cab stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Just after the turn in the stairs, John was suddenly flooded by a red-hot feeling of their _aliveness_. On the first step, he turned to Sherlock, who still stood on the landing; they shared the rare experience of being of a height. John grabbed the lapels of Sherlock’s Belstaff and drew him close. With a growl, he crushed their lips together, kissing roughly, shoving his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth without finesse, only satisfying the urge to claim and plunder and mark. John felt Sherlock lean into the passionate assault, yielding and grasping John’s waist. 

Fisting his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, John tugged to draw Sherlock’s head back enough to allow their eyes to meet. “I’m going to fuck you blind,” he whispered savagely. 

Normally John would have blushed at his own filthy words, but filled with the need to feel _alive_ , the words fell from his mouth naturally. And when John saw Sherlock’s immediate reaction - visibly widening pupils, slack lips, flushed cheeks - John was glad he’d uttered them. He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist roughly and hauled him up the final eight steps roughly, turning on him once they entered the living room and pulling him down again for more rough kisses. 

Pawing at each other’s clothing, kissing and groping, they ended up in the kitchen. Sherlock’s coat and jacket had been shed on the way, along with his shoes. Continuing to murmur filthy phrases without paying much attention to the words that left his mouth, John found his shirt hanging from the waistband of his jeans, flapping behind him. He didn’t remember shucking his jacket - Sherlock must have worked it off at some point. Frustrated at his constraining clothing, John quickly unbuttoned his jeans and shoved them down roughly. His pants went the same path and he kicked his shoes off impatiently then the offending clothing. 

Stumbling naked down the hallway, John pulled Sherlock into the bedroom. One there, he pushed Sherlock into a sitting position on the edge of the bed then took Sherlock’s chin in his hand, positioning Sherlock’s mouth just so. Dimly aware of Sherlock’s hand moving to shed his own shirt and unbutton his own trousers, John continued the rough kisses that had started on the stair, holding Sherlock firmly by the chin and hair. He was achingly turned on, filled with the paradox of of his own mortality and the pulse of his own _life_. He helped Sherlock work his trousers and pants over his hips so they could fall to his ankles and be kicked away.

Breaking the kiss, John pulled Sherlock to his feet and spun him to face the bed. His arms circled Sherlock’s torso, and he pressed his pelvis into Sherlock’s hip but holding his chest far enough away save Sherlock’s torture wounds any further injury. He leaned his forehead between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and felt Sherlock’s ribs expand and contract with each breath. Starting at Sherlock’s hips, John ran his hands over the smooth expanse of Sherlock’s skin - firm stomach, the ripples of his ribs, hard pectorals, pebbled nipples, wiry chest hair, and finally the supple column of his endless neck. John _wanted_ him - wanted so badly to consume Sherlock, to take him and own him and never let him go. He pressed his aching prick into the flesh of Sherlock’s buttocks. 

They hadn’t talked about it - John didn’t know if Sherlock even did things like he wanted to do to now. “Do you want…” John began.

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock cut John off impatiently. Sherlock leaned sideways, keeping his hip firmly connected with John’s body, and jerked open the drawer of the bedside table. He fished out a bottle and tossed it onto the bed. 

The breathless quality of Sherlock’s voice stoked John’s animal instincts. “On the bed. Kneel,” John growled

Sherlock quickly followed John’s command. John stepped up behind him, pressing Sherlock to sit back on his feet. In this position they were nearly the same height - John relished the opportunity to lick and nip Sherlock’s neck while pressing his erection into Sherlock’s cleft - a position that would have been impossible while standing. He held Sherlock’s waist with one while the fingertips of the other grazed Sherlock’s cock lightly. Rolling his hips, John growled into Sherlock's ear, “Do you want it? As much as I want you?”

John relished Sherlock’s reaction: moaning, letting his head drop back onto John’s shoulder, Sherlock flushed deeply. With a final bite to Sherlock’s neck, John let go and growled again, “Then get yourself ready.” He took a half step back and watched as Sherlock swayed backward, trying to maintain the contact between them, then swayed forward again to avoid falling. He scrambled to find the bottle he’d tossed on the bed earlier. Once procured, Sherlock slicked his fingers and reached between his legs, sinking the tips of his first two fingers into his hole. John’s prick twitched at the site - Sherlock, legs spread wide, leaning forward on one elbow while two fingers of the other hand disappeared into his body. 

“My fucking god, you’re gorgeous,” John rumbled. “Look how badly you want me to fuck you.”

Sherlock moaned his agreement, working his fingers to the second knuckle. The sight was almost too much for John - he grabbed the base of his overwrought cock and squeezed _hard_.

And the sounds - breathless “ahs” and “ohs” mixed with impatient “mnnnn” sounds while Sherlock quickly worked himself open, obviously wanting to get it over with and regain his connection with John. John picked up the bottle and slicked his own fingers and his aching erection. He was a little alarmed when Sherlock dropped his hand and leaned forward on both elbows, groaning, “John, come on.”

Fitting the head of his prick against Sherlock’s hole, John whispered, “I don’t want to hurt you…”

But Sherlock cut him off, “Just do it!”

And John pressed forward, groaning at the tight fit - Sherlock was so hot, sweat stood out along his back and thighs and inside he was molton, tight heat and when he flexed his muscles around John’s length, John swore. “Fuck!”

He knew he should slow down, that Sherlock needed time to adjust to his girth, but the animalistic urge that had gripped him on the stairs swept aside all tender concern. Sinking his fingers into the flesh of lean hips, John pulled Sherlock towards him while thrusting his hips forward, then pushed him forward as he withdrew. Sherlock eagerly picked up the punishing rhythm, pressing his arse into John’s pelvis. 

The last part of John’s rational mind still functioning cautioned him to slow down but the animal inside shoved the concern aside. Grasping Sherlock’s nape, John forced Sherlock’s chest and shoulders to the mattress, making his long back arch. Sherlock submitted without resistance, turning his head to the side and to watch John over his shoulder. The cheek presented for John’s gaze was flushed, sweat-slick curls clinging to forehead, mouth slack while John’s brutal thrusts elicited an endless stream of involuntary sounds from the arched white throat. Thrusting brutally, John ground out between clenched teeth, “Feel _that_. You. Are. _Mine_. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t sit down for a week.”

John wanted to bite, to rip Sherlock’s white flesh and watch his scarlet blood well up. They were _alive_ \- they’d lived through a harrowing morning but now they were _together_ and _home_ and nothing could separate them now.

John shifted his feet and spread his legs a little wider and Sherlock suddenly gasped, “Oh god. Right there.” 

Nothing could have made John move one millimeter from the spot. Sweat trickled down his back and his breath rasped in his parched throat but John would not have changed a thing as he watched Sherlock shove his hands under his body. Sherlock’s right elbow moved quickly and John groaned at the thought that Sherlock was jerking himself while John’s cock stabbed his prostate with each stroke. John bit his lips to keep himself in check when the thought of Sherlock’s long fingers around his thick prick while the other hand fondled his bollocks nearly sent him over the edge.

“I wish I could suck you while I fuck you,” John spoke without thinking, letting his frenzied thoughts fall from his mouth in time with his strokes, “I want to do _everything_ to you. I want to jerk you off while I fuck you. I want to suck you till you come in my mouth. I want to spank you and pinch your nipples and...” John grunted as Sherlock’s elbow lost its rhythm, his body clenched and he cried out loudly. 

Biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted iron, John struggled to keep control so he could fuck Sherlock through his orgasm. It was only when he saw Sherlock’s back sag and Sherlock quieted that John gave in to his own urgent need. He thrust deep one final time then quickly pulled out, slotting his cock against Sherlock’s cleft and rutting savagely as sparks flew up his spine then coalesced downward again. Orange and silver starbursts burst on the backside of his eyelids as he groaned and gave in to the pulses of pleasure. His ruts were slicked by his own hot semen and continued to press into Sherlock’ flesh, moaning loudly, as he rode out the last few weakening pulses.

Panting, John’s hips finally sitlled. Hands on Sherlock’s hips, he relished the sight of Sherlock, eyes closed in his flushed profile, back heaving to regain his breath, lower back painted with white stripes of John’s release. When he could breathe again, John found Sherlock’s pants where he’d kicked them under the bed and used them to wipe Sherlock’s back. Sherlock crawled forward to the pillows and collapsed onto his side with a sigh.

John swiped at the mess on the edge of the mattress then dropped the pants to the floor. He walked around the bed and got in beside Sherlock, who scooted close and threw his arm across John’s chest. He tucked his fingers under John’s ribs and rested his cheekbone against John’s shoulder. 

John reached for Sherlock’s lower hand and interlaced their fingers.

The bed was a mess, they were both a mess, they’d have to strip it and wash the sheets before bedtime. But for now, John was content to hold Sherlock’s hand, to feel Sherlock’s arm around him and to place a kiss on Sherlock’s sweaty forehead. 

“I will never take this for granted,” John growled fiercely. He felt Sherlock smile against his shoulder. 

John grinned, then broke into breathy laughter then nearly-hysterical giggles. It escalated until John was sobbing with laughter while tears ran down his cheeks. He felt himself break into pieces, the events of the past week catching up with him. Learning Sherlock was alive, the time he spent in the nondescript house reading, finding that Sherlock loved him, the first night he and Sherlock had spent together, facing the woman he’d loved across the barrel of a gun, disarming her on instinct, the arrest… it was nearly too much. 

John felt the pieces of himself start to slide apart but Sherlock tightened his grip, his strong arm holding the bits of John together while he gasped and sobbed and tried to find the edges of himself. Sherlock didn’t go in for platitudes or empty comfort words - but the weight of his arm, the rhythm of his steady breathing grounded John and kept his pieces from breaking too far apart. Sherlock pressed his lips against John’s temple and breathed, keeping a steady rhythm for John while John fought to breathe at all. Finally John’s hysterical laughter faded to irregular hiccoughs then after a final sigh, they lay in silence for a while. 

Cupping Sherlock’s cheek, John spoke so lowly, it was nearly a whisper. “You’re alive. And you’re here.” He swallowed a last hiccough. “And you love me.”

Sherlock turned his head and kissed John’s palm. “I do. Very, very much.”

John dropped his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder. He traced small circles into the junction over Sherlock’s collarbone. They remained quiet for a while then Sherlock spoke softly. “You love me.”

John turned his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes. He smiled. “I do. More than you can ever know.” He slid his hand into Sherlock’s hair, cupping the back of his head and kissing him tenderly, then settled back onto the pillow and shifted to fit against Sherlock again. 

Both intended to just rest silently for a while and enjoy the other’s heat. Minutes stretched in silence became regular breathing and before either realized, they slipped into a peaceful sleep in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.


	14. Life goes on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allright, gentle readers: we've done angst, we've done smut. What's left? Fluff!

After the initial newness of their relationship wore off, things returned to much the same as they’d been before Sherlock jumped and John got his concussion. There were a few marked differences. Sherlock no longer forgot and left John behind at crime scenes. In fact, John was usually so much at the front of his thoughts, he had to learn to think around his John-thoughts. And John gave up his full-time position at the surgery, He stayed on the locum list and worked a few shifts a week to give them an income they could rely on to pay the bills but as The Work picked up with the spread of news of Sherlock’s return, he took on fewer and fewer surgery shifts in favor of wild chases and all night stakeouts with Sherlock.

The initial honeymoon period cooled off, too - after all, they were both middle aged men no longer up for seven times a night at Baker Street - but they both continued to delight in the pleasures of the flesh several times a week. Both men found the intimacy even more satisfying than the sex. Sharing Sherlock’s bed, sleeping entwined when the weather was cool enough or just touching when the press of bodies was too stifling, sharing the bathroom to shave or brush teeth, John’s clothes hanging in Sherlock’s wardrobe; the everyday intimacies of two lives sharing one space. John had craved it for so long. He’d tried so hard to find it with past relationships (including Mary) but it had never been as satisfying as with Sherlock. And Sherlock? He’d been starving for it without even realizing he was hungry. He couldn’t get enough of casual touches, their feet bumping under the dining room table, lounging against John on the sofa while John read and he lost himself in thought. All of it was intensely satisfying in a way Sherlock could never have imagined before.

Weeks faded into months and the rhythm of their lives fell into place: cases, holidays with Sherlock’s parents, John’s surgery shifts being interrupted by urgent texts from Sherlock, dishes in the sink and clutter in the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson’s treats side by side with specimens in the fridge. Everything it has been _before_ and more, made more precious by the just-below-the surface awareness of how it could all change in an instant and more cherished because they’d both suffered for the lack of it. 

It was foggy and dreary, which made night fade into day almost imperceptibly. John had slept through his alarm clock with no sunshine through the curtains to wake him as a back-up measure. In his rush to get coffee before he left for work, he’d only half listened to Sherlock talk about a one armed hitchhiker who carried a sheleighly and had an oblique connection to a stolen gold-and-ruby necklace. Sherlock was still talking when he’d kissed the top of his head then bounded down the stairs in a hurry to catch the 7:53 at Baker Street station. 

The surgery had been short staffed that day. John’s scheduled four hour shift stretched into eight, then he’d offered to stay for the second shift - they could certainly use the money. He’d been so rushed all day, he hadn’t even had time to check in via text to see what Sherlock had gotten up to. Later, when John came home to a dark flat and missing flatmate, he wasn’t too concerned. Sherlock had survived without him for two years in much more dangerous circumstances than London at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. After a bite to eat, he settled into bed with his laptop and a cold beer. 

An idea had come to him during his Tube ride home. A way to finally express what he wanted to tell Sherlock, in the way he did it best. No more fumbling words, no more half-expressed thoughts. No more sentences that he couldn’t seem to finish. Instead of haltingly trying to speak his feelings to Sherlock, he’d write them as responses to Sherlock’s messages. He’d finally face the demons he’d been feeling during those years: grief, pain, loss, guilt. He’d face his gradual awareness that he felt more strongly about Sherlock than a mate. He’d go through Sherlock’s notes and reply with what he was feeling at time time. Better than therapy, writing responses to Sherlock’s notes would help him work the two years Sherlock had been ‘dead’ out of his system. And it would allow him to tell Sherlock all the words that couldn't seem to get past the proper British reserve that choked him up when he tried to tell his lover just how very much he was cherished. 

He’d exchanged texts with Mycroft and before he’d even unlocked the door at Baker Street, he’d been granted access to post messages to the secure website.

Opening the site, John read over Sherlock’s last message. He exhaled sharply, thinking of the lash scars on Sherlock’s back that resulted from his capture by Moriarty's Serbian people. Sherlock had told him in the message about his injuries. How confused Sherlock must have been when John launched himself at him, knocking him to the ground on his injured back with all his weight. John swallowed the gorge that threatened to rise at the thought. _No_ \- his notes would not start with apologies. He and Sherlock had both said their apologies and agreed that none further were needed. John wanted his first note to echo Sherlock’s tender words, not apologize for injuring him further. He opened a new document and began:

> _**My dearest Sherlock,** _
> 
> **_It may seem weird to you that I’m answering your notes now that you’re here, and whole, and we’re happy together. But your messages deserve to be read, and answered. Your devotion deserves to be acknowledged. And it’s the best way I can tell you how very, very much I love you. When I try to tell you in words, my tongue seems to stick to the top of my mouth and the words get all jumbled in my throat. As you know, Sherlock, I’m a writer, not a talker. So settle in, because I’m going to answer all of your messages even if it takes me two years to do it._ **
> 
> **_You said in your last message_** (author’s note - see chapter 6) **_that you’d wished I’d been able to sit by your hospital bed and hold your hand. I wish I had, too. I wish I’d been aware of what you were going through. Nothing - and I mean nothing - could have kept me away from your bedside. I would have taken care of you, and read to you, and held your hand. I would have never left your side. Just like I never will, now that I know how much you love me_** .
> 
> _**You said in your last note that you wanted to be home, to wake up in the same bed, to sit across from each other by the fireside. Those things, Sherlock, I cherish more than you can know. Just having you home - it’s a miracle! A true, honest-to-goodness miracle, to see your face first thing in the morning and last thing at night. To eat dinner across from you. To even clean up the bathroom sink after you - that’s a miracle! Because it means you’re alive, and you’re here, and you’re safe. And I will cherish that knowledge every day of my life.** _

John was so engrossed in his thoughts, he didn’t Sherlock arrive home until Sherlock strode through the bedroom door, bringing the scent of wood smoke and cold still clinging to his hair. Sherlock leaned over John’s shoulder and peered at the laptop. 

“What are you doing?”

John swallowed, a little too overcome by what he’d been writing to answer. After clearing his throat and blinking a few times, he finally looked up at his dear friend. “I’m writing a note. To you. To answer the last note you wrote to me, from the Serbian hospital.”

A wrinkle appeared between Sherlock’s brows. “Why would you do that?”

“Well, I have all these messages. You wrote them, and they’re. Well, they’re wonderful. The best thing you could have ever done for me. And, you know. I just … I’m not good with words. With talking, I mean. I’m better at writing things out.” John felt a blush rising. Really, it was ridiculous to be embarrassed in front of Sherlock. He’d had his tongue up Sherlock’s anus, for god’s sake. How could he be embarrassed at Sherlock catching him writing a love note!

Sherlock’s brow wrinkled even more deeply. He gave John the ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about but I’m too proud to ask’ look. John quickly continued, “I’m going to go through your messages and answer them.” He gave Sherlock an unsteady smile. “I asked Mycroft to give me authorization to post messages to your secure site.”

Sherlock’s expression changed from puzzled to incredulous. “All of them? You’re going to answer...”

“Well, most. I may group a few together if it seems right. I haven’t read them all yet.”

“But why?” Sherlock seemed more amazed than confused. 

John closed the laptop and sat it on the floor beside the bed. He patted the mattress beside him and watched silently as Sherlock slipped off his shoes and trousers and climbed into bed. He began to unbutton his shirt as he settled back onto the pillows John had propped against the headboard. When Sherlock had finally shrugged off the shirt, John shifted to face him and took his hand.

“Reading through your messages will help me remember what I was thinking and what I was doing while you were away.” John held Sherlock’s gaze, willing him to deduce what he meant so he could stop talking. When it was obvious to him that Sherlock didn’t, he continued, “It’s like therapy. Remembering things, how it felt. It helps me. You know, work things out. In writing.” 

John glanced down at their twined fingers then up again to find Sherlock’s face begin to relax in understanding. “Better than Ella,” Sherlock murmured. 

“Yeah.” John let out a little laugh. “Less travel time, too.”

“Can I read them?”

John was amazed that Sherlock had asked. Wasn’t it evident that he was writing _to_ Sherlock? Did Sherlock think he was writing only for his own benefit? “Of course. I’m writing them for you. About you, about me. About the time you were ... away.” 

“Can I read them now?” Sherlock gestured toward the floor where the laptop lay.

John shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll finish my first note tomorrow. You can read it then.” He stretched his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and drew him close, savoring the warmth and vitality of Sherlock’s wiry body. “I can think of better things we can do tonight.” 


	15. EPILOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6ish months later...

John shouldered the door shut while juggling his keys and two takeaway bags. Mrs. Hudson’s door stood half open as if she’d been waiting for his arrival. Just as his foot hit the first stair, his landlady poked her head out into the foyer.

“John,” she said in her ‘we have something a bit not good to discuss’ voice. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to bring up.” She wrung her hands, obviously waiting for a sign from John before she continued.

Tucking his keys into his jeans pocket, John glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” He tried to keep all trace of the impatience he felt out of his voice - perhaps he could keep this brief and still manage to eat his dinner while it was still warm.

“Well, dear, you know Sherlock’s bedroom is right over mine.”

John winced inside. He _knew_ it was a bad idea to keep spending the night in Sherlock’s room. He’d even brought it up to Sherlock, that they should retire upstairs to his room for after-dark activities. But somehow, John’s bed remained un-slept-in even though his clothing and personal possessions were safely stowed in ‘his’ bedroom. 

Mrs. Hudson continued, “And at my time of life, it’s hard to get a really deep sleep. Age, dear. It makes sleep so hard to come by. And I’m so thrilled for you two, I really am. But there are certain things I’d rather not think about, love you though I do. You know, at my time of life…”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I certainly do. I’ll just … Sherlock and I, we’ll. Um. The room upstairs …” John trailed off weakly, not really sure how to tell his eighty year old landlady that he and his lover would be sure to fuck somewhere else than over her head while she tried to sleep. He took another step up, holding up the takeout bags and nodding toward them. “This is hot and you know how Chinese is best eaten fresh. Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson!” Cheeks aflame, John ducked his head and nearly sprinted up the stairs.

.

..

...

Sherlock was at the table as John entered the flat. “Oh. My _god_ , Sherlock!” John exclaimed. “I just ran into Mrs. Hudson downstairs.” 

Sherlock glanced up from the petri dish he was swirling. He raised an eyebrow to for John to continue.

“She educated me on how it gets harder to sleep deeply as one gets older. Especially when one’s tenants are fucking _loudly_ right above one’s head.” John dropped the food bags on the table and burst out laughing, wheezing when he tried to catch his breath.

An expression of horrified incredulity flashed across Sherlock’s face. “No,” he said. “She didn’t…”

“Not in so many words, but yes. She did.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That we’d fuck upstairs in my room from now on.”

“You didn't.”

“Not in so many words.”

They were both laughing now, John leaning against the table and nearly collapsing in mirth and Sherlock rocking back and forth on his lab stool, giggling helplessly.

“I could get you a gag. I’ve my eye on a nice black leather one with a red rubber ball…”

“I’m not the one who needs a gag! You’re the one who screamed like a _banshee_ last night at two a.m.!”

“Are you even aware of the noises you make? You’re like a gorilla _blaring_ a mating call…”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Fuck-me-harder-yes-like-that-don’t-stop? Do you even know how _loud_ you say those things?”

“Do you have any idea how _hard_ you bang the headboard into the wall when you’re…”

“And you make the bedsprings creak so _loud_ , I’m surprised Mrs. Hudson hasn’t called the fire department, thinking her ceiling is collapsing…”

John rounded the table and caught the front of Sherlock’s shirt to haul him in for a giggling, open mouthed kiss. “Does that bed of yours come apart?” he finally murmured against Sherlock’s lips.

“Yes. Quite easily.”

“What about the one upstairs?”

“I don’t know, that was already set up when I moved in.”

John stepped back and smacked Sherlock on the arse, hard. “Hurry up and eat, sunshine. We have some furniture to move.”

“What about the bathroom? It’s down here.”

“Maybe Mrs. Hudson will allow us to install a bathroom in one of the unfinished rooms upstairs.”

“You’re paying for that.”

“No, you are, you’re the one who can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.”

“Well you can’t stop fucking me until I open my mouth! Perhaps a gag _would_ be cheaper.”

“I like to hear you. I’m sure that we can manage the expense if we split it.”

“I have a better idea. Mycroft can pay for it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to SincerelyChaos for betaing the first five chapters. You always push me to be a better story teller and I appreciate it!
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr: tumblr.iriswallpaper.com


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